


No Other Tribute

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Nothing in the World [9]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Bars and Pubs, Bath Sex, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Chatting & Messaging, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Face Slapping, Fights, Flirting, Gangs, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Knives, Living Together, M/M, Men Crying, Phone Calls & Telephones, Punching, Restaurants, Revenge, Size Kink, Stabbing, Stalking, Strength Kink, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing, Unconsciousness, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 92,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'It really is a fascinating situation to be in,' Izaya says, speaking loudly even though the words are more rhetorical than intended for Shizuo’s hearing. 'Who would have expected two rival gangs to arise at almost exactly the same time?'" Shizuo and Izaya have settled into a routine for their lives after moving in together, but the arrival of a new gang and new people in the city demand more than passive observation from them both.





	1. Indolent

“It really is a fascinating situation to be in,” Izaya says, speaking loudly even though the words are more rhetorical than intended for Shizuo’s hearing. “Who would have expected two rival gangs to arise at almost exactly the same time?” He touches against the screen of his phone to draw down to the next forum post, making some show of pursing his lips as he skims over the information before him. “And both of them run by middle schoolers. Really, today’s youth are so much more reckless than they used to be.”

“I cannot believe _you_ are saying that,” Shizuo says. “I seem to recall someone who had an extended rivalry with the gangs in town when we were in middle school too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Izaya says without looking away from the screen of his phone. “I never had anyone who could stand up to me as a rival.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo agrees, touching a hand to the inside of Izaya’s knee to slide the other’s legs apart. “That’s because you had me there to destroy anyone who thought about so much as laying a finger on you.”

“That’s just good business,” Izaya says, letting his leg angle open until his foot is dangling over the edge of the bed entirely. “Self-defense is an important factor to consider for those who move in our circles.”

“Or they could just not move in these circles at all,” Shizuo suggests. “They could go to school and join a club like normal middle schoolers.”

“I’m all for club membership,” Izaya says. Shizuo snorts a laugh from the end of the bed and Izaya lets his mouth twitch up on a grin as he tabs through to a different series of posts. “It’s important to pursue one’s interests when one has the freedom of youth to do so. The relationships that are formed can prove invaluable in adult life.”

“You are so ridiculous,” Shizuo declares. “You only started that stupid club because you wanted an excuse to spend time with me.”

“And you joined it because you wanted the same,” Izaya fires back immediately. “Because you had a _crush_ on me.”

Shizuo groans. “ _Izaya_.”

“You _liked_ me,” Izaya drawls to the screen of his phone. “You thought I was _cute_. You wanted to hold my hand and take me out on dates and _kiss_ me.” He lifts his phone up so he can tip his head down to smirk at the unimpressed look Shizuo is giving him. “Didn’t you, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo huffs an exhale without looking away from Izaya’s face. He’s aiming for frustration, trying to cling to the flat look he’s giving the other, but there’s tension starting at the corner of his mouth as the very beginning of a laugh tries to break free. “Yeah.”

“Wow,” Izaya purrs. “How _embarrassing_.”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans. “Izaya, we are _dating_. We _live_ together.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, not making any attempt to hold back either the smile at his lips or the warmth in his throat as he looks back to his phone. “That doesn’t change the facts.”

“The _facts_ ,” Shizuo repeats back. “Like that you were as infatuated with me as I was with you?”

“I don’t know about that,” Izaya demurs. “I never quit a job just to follow you around.”

“You never _had_ a job in the first place.”

“I did too,” Izaya says. “I was working all through high school, unlike you. You slacker.”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “Like you work now?”

“Yes,” Izaya agrees. “I provide a very important service for the city by keeping everyone informed on the goings-on.”

“Uh huh.” Shizuo sounds unconvinced, but he’s pressing his hands back in against Izaya’s knees, and Izaya isn’t about to complain about much of anything if it comes with the warmth of Shizuo’s hands pressing up against the friction of his skin. “Like gossip about middle-schoolers forming a couple clubs?”

“It’s not a club,” Izaya corrects. “This new one has dozens of members, Shizuo. The founder is getting a real following, they could become a major issue in the city. They even have a symbol for themselves,” as he taps in against a picture on one of the forum posts and turns the phone to show Shizuo. “They call themselves the Yellow Scarves. Not bad for a group of middle schoolers, huh?”

Shizuo huffs a sigh. “Izaya.”

“It’s not the most inventive name,” Izaya continues as he brings his phone back around to consider the picture. “But then again, we’re part of a group that calls itself the Dollars, so really I suppose we don’t have any room to complain.” He tips his head against the pillow beneath him and purses his lips in contemplation. “Maybe I should track down the leader. I could give him some tips on being a reckless middle schooler, what do you think?”

“I think you should stop talking about some stupid gang when I’m trying to seduce you,” Shizuo tells him. His hands slide higher up Izaya’s legs, his fingers spread to brace against the tops of the other’s thighs. “Unless you’d rather I left you to your forums?”

“My goodness, how uninteresting,” Izaya declares loudly, and tosses his phone sideways to fall into the soft of the currently unoccupied blankets next to him. “I don’t know how anyone could find this at all engaging.” He lets one arm fall out over the sheets next to him, lets the other angle up over his head as he tips his head back to sigh gustily at the ceiling. “Whatever shall I do with my morning now?”

Shizuo’s laugh is warm in the soft peace of the room. “You are ridiculous,” he declares without lifting his head from where he’s sprawling between Izaya’s angled-open legs. His breath runs hot against Izaya’s skin to prickle sensation in and against the underside of the other’s knee. “I can’t believe I fell in love with you.”

“But you did,” Izaya says. He tips his head up to look towards the table alongside the bed and reaches out to stretch for the bottle toppled sideways against the surface. “We were just talking about that, weren’t we? Let’s go back to the part where you find me so devastatingly alluring you rearranged your entire life to be by my side.”

“‘Go back’?” Shizuo repeats, neither blushing nor stammering as Izaya half-hoped he would. He’s smiling, rather, his lips curving up on warm satisfaction as he lifts a hand from the other’s thigh to accept the bottle Izaya is offering. “I don’t think I noticed us _leaving_ that part. I didn’t, anyway.”

“That’s because you’re trapped in the past,” Izaya tells him loftily. “That’s what you get for settling for your childhood sweetheart.”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums, ducking his head to watch his hands as he rocks back onto his knees, bracing the top of his thigh just against the inside line of Izaya’s as he lifts his hands to work the bottle open and pour liquid across his fingers. “It’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it?”

Izaya raises an eyebrow, even though Shizuo is smiling down at his hands instead of looking up to see the show of disbelief Izaya is putting on for him. “Spending your life getting into fights to defend some brat you’ve been stuck with since you were thirteen?” he asks. “Oh yes, I can’t imagine anything better.”

“Me either,” Shizuo says, with significantly more sincerity on the words than Izaya’s sarcasm carried, and he tosses the bottle aside and reaches back out for Izaya’s skin. “Move your legs a little wider.”

Izaya huffs an exhale. “Maybe you’re a masochist,” he suggests as he tilts his knees as far apart as they’ll go and braces his foot against the sheets so he can angle his hips up towards the slick wet of Shizuo’s fingers. “And I just get you into more trouble than anyone else would.”

“Mostly you get yourself into trouble,” Shizuo says. He flattens a hand against Izaya’s skin, high up, near the juncture of the other’s thighs; when he presses down it’s more steadying than forceful, just a weight to brace the other still as he touches slick fingers to Izaya’s entrance. “I don’t think it’s that.”

“Fine then,” Izaya says. “Why _do_ you stick around with me?”

Shizuo’s laugh is warm, so low and resonant in his throat that it sounds nearly like a purr. “Because I love you,” he says; and then he pushes forward, his touch slides up and into Izaya, and Izaya’s throat tightens on a groan as he clenches down against the familiar pressure of Shizuo inside him. Shizuo shifts his wrist, moving his hand into a better angle as he pulls back fractionally before sliding forward to work deeper into the other’s body. “Like you already know. Don’t be a brat.”

Izaya’s breath spills out of him, the sound of his inhales drawn to audibility by the easy-slick rhythm of Shizuo’s touch stretching him open with practiced grace. It feels good, like friction dragging over a distant itch, like pressure bearing down against a perpetual ache; Izaya’s foot catches at the edge of the bed and he braces his heel against the frame as he arches up to meet the wet stroke of Shizuo’s finger inside him. “Things change,” he manages. “Maybe someday you’ll get tired of me.”

Shizuo coughs a noise of disbelief. “I don’t think anyone could ever be tired of you,” he says. “You’re a lot of things, Izaya, but boring isn’t one of them.”

“Oh?” Izaya lifts his hand from the bed alongside him and reaches up instead, stretching to slide his fingers into Shizuo’s hair, to drag through the bleached-bond waves and urge them off the other’s forehead as Shizuo’s lashes shift and the dark of his gaze comes up to meet Izaya’s. “What _am_ I, then, senpai?”

Shizuo’s mouth quirks. “You want to get off while I tell you about yourself?”

“No,” Izaya says immediately. “I want you to tell me about myself while _you_ get me off.”

That draws a full-blown laugh from Shizuo. “You are such a narcissist.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. “Promising start. What else?”

“A brat,” Shizuo offers, still smiling in that way that turns his eyes liquid with affection, that melts the tension curving at his lips to something soft and warm as sunshine. “You are absolutely insufferable.”

“And yet you suffer me,” Izaya says. “That would seem to-- _ah_ ” as Shizuo draws his touch back to offer the width of a second finger along with the first, as the hand at Izaya’s thigh tightens to hold him still against the force of the other’s motion. Izaya’s fingers clench in Shizuo’s hair, his back curves to arch him against the bed; and then Shizuo’s fingers slide forward and into him, the strain of the other’s touch drawing Izaya open around it, and Izaya groans and drops to the support of the bed, letting the mattress take his weight as he deliberately eases to the force of Shizuo’s touch. “Seem to make you a masochist after all.”

“That’s not all you are,” Shizuo says. His voice is low, warm and purring over the vowels of his speech; it’s enough to draw Izaya’s focus to the other’s features, to hold his wandering attention to the way Shizuo is looking at him, to the shadows in the other’s eyes and the softness at his mouth. “You’re beautiful too.”

Izaya snorts. “A pretty face is enough to cover all manner of flaws, then?”

“It’s not just your face,” Shizuo says. “Although yours _is_ very pretty.” His gaze slides down over Izaya’s features, wandering across the other’s expression and down to the curve of his neck as he follows the shape of the other’s body with the weight of his eyes. Izaya can feel it like Shizuo is touching him, as if the other is reaching out to press fingertips to his skin alongside his stare.

“There’s your neck too,” Shizuo says, tipping his head like he’s considering the thrum of Izaya’s pulse in his throat, the rhythm of the heartbeat Izaya can feel speeding with the heat rushing into him with every stroke of Shizuo’s fingers. “Your hands, of course” as he turns his head in against Izaya’s hold in his hair, as his lips skim and brush against the inside of the other’s wrist. Izaya lets his hold on Shizuo’s hair ease enough to pull his fingers in and touch against Shizuo’s lips, and Shizuo kisses against them, obedient to the suggestion as fast as Izaya offers it.

“I like your legs too,” Shizuo says. “Especially when I can see all of them” as his hand slides up, as his fingers tighten for a moment at Izaya’s hip as if to underscore his point before drawing up and across bare skin. “I like how soft your stomach is. I can see how tense you get when you’re like this, how much you like the way I touch you.” His fingers skim down, drawing over Izaya’s skin and leaving heat in their wake, until by the time his touch brushes the other’s length Izaya can feel himself quivering with anticipation, can feel himself jolt with the electricity of Shizuo’s fingers against him.

“This too,” Shizuo says, and his voice is shadowed now, dragging into depths that course heat down Izaya’s spine to catch and meet the thrust of the fingers working him open, stroking friction inside him with graceful ease even as he tenses against them, as his hips twitch with the effort to press up against Shizuo’s touch. “You have a _beautiful_ cock, Izaya.” His fingers draw down, his grip slides in to tighten against the other’s length; and Izaya hisses a breath past his teeth as his body jerks upward, as every muscle in him tries to thrust up and into Shizuo’s hold. Shizuo’s gaze is fixed to his fingers, his attention following the slide of his hand as he pulls up, pouring friction into Izaya’s body as he moves; and Izaya can’t look away, can’t drag his focus up from watching Shizuo stare at his hand stroking over Izaya’s cock like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Shizuo,” Izaya says, sounding hoarse and feeling more so; and Shizuo’s fingers dip into him, Shizuo’s grip slides over him, and his breath breaks over a moan, his fingers fist into Shizuo’s hair as his shoulders arch, as his body curves under the other’s ministrations. “ _Shizuo_.” Shizuo’s head lifts, his heat-shadowed gaze comes up, and Izaya gasps a breath and pulls hard at the other’s hair. “ _Fuck_ me.”

“I thought you wanted to hear what I like about you,” Shizuo tells him. “I’m not even halfway done, shouldn’t we--” and then Izaya hisses, and jerks sharply at his hold, and Shizuo’s protest gives way to a heat-softened laugh instead.

“You’re impatient too,” he says, as he lets his grip go and slides his fingers back and free of the other’s body. Izaya whines at the loss, feeling himself ache with the emptiness that always comes with Shizuo pulling out of him; but Shizuo is reaching up to brace himself against the bed alongside Izaya’s shoulder, and Izaya is too busy fitting his free arm in and around Shizuo’s neck to bother with more coherent protest. He presses his hand in against the back of Shizuo’s head, pulling down at the same time he tips his own head up to meet the other, and Izaya can feel the huff of Shizuo’s laugh against his lips in the moment before he turns his head to catch the other’s mouth with his and effectively cut off any further speech for long heartbeats. Shizuo doesn’t seem to mind, judging from the way he groans against Izaya’s parted lips and curls his fingers in against the other’s hair as he leans in closer, and Izaya holds Shizuo in against him so he can lick against the heat of the other’s mouth at the same time he catches both legs around Shizuo’s hips. His heels dig in against the small of Shizuo’s back, he arches up to gain better traction, and against the give of his lips Shizuo coughs a laugh as Izaya kicks the loose waistband of the other’s pajama pants off his hips with more desperation than elegance.

“ _Very_ impatient,” Shizuo says, murmuring the words just against Izaya’s mouth; but he’s rocking his hips in closer anyway, fitting himself between the angle of Izaya’s thighs as fast as the other succeeds in his makeshift method of disrobing him, and that’s all Izaya really wanted anyway. Shizuo’s hand slides free of his hair, trailing down the curve of his waist to close at his hip, to brace him steady against the sheets beneath them, and Izaya arches up to press against the span of Shizuo’s chest, to fit himself against the heat of the other’s body as Shizuo tips his hips down to line himself up with Izaya’s entrance.

“You’re always so desperate,” Shizuo says, ducking his head so he’s pressing his nose against Izaya’s cheekbone, so his breath spills warm over the other’s skin. “I love that.” His fingers tighten, his hips shift; Izaya can feel the hot-flushed head of Shizuo’s cock press against him, can feel the weight of it dragging against slick skin.

“I love the sound you make when I push into you,” Shizuo says against Izaya’s ear, and Izaya has to press his mouth shut tight on a groan, has to tighten his grip on Shizuo’s hair like he’s holding himself in place. “Like a moan and a whimper and a plea all at the same time” and his hips come forward, and his cock slides into Izaya, and Izaya’s throat spasms, his lungs flex to spill that precise sound as his back arches to press as close to Shizuo as he can get. Shizuo huffs an exhale, his fingers spasm at Izaya’s hip. “ _God_.” He draws back, sliding away only by a half-inch before thrusting forward again to drive into the tension of Izaya trembling beneath him. “Izaya.”

“Is that--” Izaya starts; and has to stop as Shizuo sinks deep into him, as his legs flex hard around the width of Shizuo’s hips between his thighs. “Is that all?” Shizuo lifts his head to blink confusion down at the other, and Izaya struggles to collect himself, to piece together the fragments of his coherency into an illusion of articulation if nothing else. “You just want to fuck me senseless so you put up with everything else?”

“No,” Shizuo says at once. “That’s not all.” He draws his hips back, thrusts forward sharply; Izaya can feel his toes curl, this time, as the head of Shizuo’s cock slides hard against his inner walls. “Though I _do_ want to fuck you senseless.”

“God,” Izaya gasps. “Don’t stop” and he’s tightening his grip on Shizuo’s hair, bracing his legs around the other’s hips to hold them closer together, to urge Shizuo farther into him. “Tell--tell me.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo breathes, his lashes dipping, his voice rising. His hand eases at Izaya’s hip, his fingers slide in and against the other’s waist to flatten at Izaya’s back, to lift and pull the other in flush against him as he finds a rhythm, steady and certain and unflinching. Izaya can feel the shift of Shizuo’s thighs flexing against him, can feel the movement of muscle against the dip of Shizuo’s spine where his trembling legs are pressed close to the other’s body. “I love you so much.” Their bodies move together, Shizuo pressing forward as Izaya arches up; Izaya’s breath hisses past his teeth, his chest seizes over heat, but Shizuo is still gazing at him, still looking down with his lips parted around the huff of his breathing and his cheeks flushing with warmth and his whole expression as open on affection as if it’s their first time all over again, as if he’s never seen Izaya before this moment, as if there is no one else in the whole world but Izaya for him. “You’re beautiful and brilliant and stupidly reckless, you want to be in the middle of everything all the time. You _always_ find trouble for yourself and you scare me half to death every other week.” He huffs a breath and ducks closer, his forehead bumping to press to Izaya’s as he leans in against the other. “I have to stay with you all the time just to make sure you’re not getting yourself killed somewhere.”

“Sounds like a lot of effort,” Izaya manages. His arm is bracing close across Shizuo’s shoulders, his fingers are clutching at the side of the other’s chest; it’s hard to find words at all, with the heat in his body surging to swamp his attention, but he struggles into them all the same. “Wouldn’t you be happier with someone else?”

“Never,” Shizuo says with so much force on the words that Izaya can feel the impact of them like a blow gusting against his lips. “I don’t want anyone else.” His arm slides up Izaya’s back, his fingers press into the space between Izaya’s shoulderblades; Izaya can feel the whole of Shizuo’s forearm bracing him still, holding him steady as Shizuo moves into him, as their bodies fit together as near as Shizuo can bring them. “I’ve never wanted anyone but you, Izaya.”

“Oh,” Izaya says; and this isn’t a surprise, this isn’t even the first time Shizuo has said this. But neither is it the first time Izaya has heard it, and he knows how the words sing in his blood, he’s tensing in anticipation even before he feels the heat shivering down his spine start to twist to a knot in his stomach. “Oh, fuck, Shizuo.”

“I love you,” Shizuo says, and he’s ducking in, pressing his mouth to the breathless part of Izaya’s as fast as the other gasps an inhale, weighting Izaya’s lips with a kiss before jumping to the other’s cheek, jaw, neck, fitting heat to the other’s skin as fast as Izaya’s fingers twist in his hair and clutch at his skin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya says; and then, again, as his shoulders tense, as his legs flex, as the whole of his body curves up to strain towards the steady rhythm of Shizuo thrusting into him, “ _Shizuo_ ,” his voice cracking high and pleading even to the echo in his own ears.

“Yes,” Shizuo answers back, “Izaya, please--” and Izaya gasps, and jerks in Shizuo’s grip, and comes in a rush, his cock spilling heat against Shizuo’s skin pinning close against his own. He can hear the sound of his breathing catching high and plaintive, can feel his whole body spasming in waves of heat around the force of Shizuo moving into him. Shizuo’s panting against his neck, groaning something incoherent with satisfaction as his thrusts go jerky, as his rhythm gives way to desperation; and then his hips snap forward, and he moans “ _Izaya_ ” as he quakes into his own orgasm in the wake of Izaya’s. Izaya keeps clinging to Shizuo, keeps holding them tight together as Shizuo gasps against his throat, as Shizuo’s hips stutter-thrust through the force of his pleasure; and then Shizuo sighs a heavy exhale, and the tension eases from his body, and Izaya pulls Shizuo down to crush him against the sheets as the strength in the other’s limbs gives way to languid satisfaction.

They’re both quiet for a moment. Shizuo’s arm is pinned under Izaya’s back, the weight of Izaya’s legs are holding Shizuo in against him; the only concession Izaya makes to the satisfaction purring through him is to ease the pressure of his grip around Shizuo’s shoulders and to unwind his fist of Shizuo’s hair so he can stroke through the tangled waves of it instead. Shizuo huffs against the side of Izaya’s neck as the other’s fingers draw through his hair, turning his head to fit himself closer against the curve of Izaya’s shoulder, and Izaya tips his head to bump against Shizuo’s next to him as he shuts his eyes and breathes a sigh of complete satisfaction against the other’s hair.

“I suppose I love you too,” he allows.

Shizuo’s snort gusts ticklish against Izaya’s neck. “Generous of you to admit it.”

“I know,” Izaya says. “I’m an incredibly giving person, everyone says so.”

“Mm.” Shizuo presses closer against Izaya’s neck, nuzzling in just under the other’s ear; Izaya tips his head to the side to give Shizuo better access without bothering with opening his eyes. Shizuo breathes in against the weight of his hair, his lips skim the outline of a kiss against Izaya’s skin. “Tell me again.”

Izaya opens his eyes to gaze up at the ceiling overhead, to look at the plain white of the room that has become such a refuge, such a relief from the pressures of reality and the constant chatter of the world at large. He blinks up at the smooth surface, feels his heart beating in counterpoint to Shizuo’s against him; and then he takes a breath, and says “I love you,” and turns to press his mouth hard against the side of Shizuo’s forehead. Shizuo’s hold on him tightens, Shizuo’s breath spills over his neck; and Izaya shuts his eyes again, and lets peace spread out around them once more.

It’s Shizuo who breaks it, this time, when Izaya is starting to feel the ache against the inside of his widespread legs but isn’t yet willing to admit to it and lose the comforting burden of Shizuo against him. Izaya is appreciating the rhythm of Shizuo’s breathing against him, is wandering his fingertips in and against the shift of Shizuo’s ribcage under his touch; and then Shizuo takes a breath, and says “You’re going to get into trouble with this new gang, aren’t you?” without lifting his head from Izaya’s neck.

Izaya hums. “Maybe,” he allows. “Maybe not.” He pushes his fingers all the way back through Shizuo’s hair to curl close against the back of the other’s neck. “Maybe I’ll find something completely new to get caught up in instead.”

Shizuo groans. “Can’t you just let this one pass for once?”

“Never,” Izaya says. “The city relies on me, senpai, I’m very important you know.” He slides his hand down from Shizuo’s neck to push at the other’s shoulder instead. “Get off me, I have important informant work to do.”

Shizuo ducks his head in closer and tightens his hold the tighter. “No.”

Izaya ducks his head to raise an eyebrow at Shizuo, at least as best he can given that the other’s face is still tucked in close against the side of his neck. “What, are you planning to just lay on top of me to keep me out of trouble?”

“Hmm,” Shizuo hums. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Izaya huffs a paper-thin imitation of irritation. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

“No,” Shizuo agrees. “But for a couple hours, at least.” He turns his head to kiss against Izaya’s collarbone. “A day, maybe.”

“Monster,” Izaya says, and lets his hand slide away from Shizuo’s shoulder to drape across the other’s back. “You’re going to hold me hostage in my own bed?”

“No,” Shizuo says, and he lifts his head to smile down at Izaya beneath him. “I’m going to hold you hostage in _our_ bed.”

“Oh dear,” Izaya sighs. “I’m being forced into helplessness by a beautiful blond sex maniac. Goodness only knows what he might do to me!”

Shizuo’s laugh crinkles at the corners of his eyes and purrs warm from his throat. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me,” Izaya reminds him. “Hurry up and kiss me before I find more trouble for us both.” Shizuo is quick to obey, and does a thorough enough job of it that Izaya doesn’t even think of reaching for his phone, even if it is well within his reach.

The politics of Ikebukuro can take care of themselves for another day, at least.


	2. Entangle

“Really though,” Shizuo sighs as he reaches over Izaya’s shoulder to hold the door to the restaurant open for the other. “Have you ever considered just _not_ getting involved for once?” Izaya ducks under Shizuo’s arm without hesitating to take the lead into the shop, leaving the other to trail in his wake and fix the exasperated stare he’s been giving Izaya all afternoon on the other’s shoulders instead. “We could just watch for once instead of meddling.”

“ _Meddling_ ,” Izaya repeats, putting on his most shocked tone as he tips his head to look back at Shizuo. Shizuo looks unimpressed by this show of innocence; it makes Izaya grin before he looks away again. “Come on, Shizu-chan, I never _meddle_.”

“You _always_ do,” Shizuo corrects him. “You don’t know how to stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble!” It’s another voice speaking, repeating back Shizuo’s words with the low rumble of weight that Simon always carries in his speech. “Trouble is no good. Food is good. Sushi is peace. Sit down, eat sushi, be happy!”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Izaya says, flashing his most winning smile in answer to Simon’s perpetual grin. “Just sushi. Nothing at all troublesome.”

“Hm,” Simon says, looking over Izaya’s shoulder at Shizuo frowning behind him. “Your Shizuo, he seem to disagree.”

Izaya doesn’t have to try for his smile this time any more than he has to look before reaching back for Shizuo’s hand. “He’s just in a bad mood,” he announces as Shizuo’s fingers wind into his. “He gets in a temper when he’s hungry.”

Simon’s laugh is booming enough to fill the whole space of the sushi restaurant. “Good, good! Food good, peaceful sushi. I bring to you. Sit, sit!”

“Thanks Simon,” Izaya lilts, and steps forward into the nearly-empty restaurant with Shizuo in tow by his hold on the other’s hand. Shizuo huffs frustration but he doesn’t pull his hand free, just tightens his grip and jogs a step forward to catch up with Izaya’s lead.

“Brat,” he murmurs in an undertone that ruffles Izaya’s hair. “ _You’re_ the one who skips meals if I don’t remind you to stop and eat.”

“And here we are for a meal,” Izaya tells him. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, senpai, I thought you’d be happy I suggested stopping for lunch.”

“It’s not for lunch,” Shizuo growls as Izaya pulls him in towards one of the booths at the corner of the restaurant, where they’ll be half-hidden in shadow while maintaining a clear view of the front doors to the shop. “You’re just trying to cause problems and this is the most convenient place to do it.”

“You wound me,” Izaya says, turning as he lifts his free hand to press to his heart as if Shizuo has just stabbed him. “I try to take you out for a date and you repay me with mistrust and accusations? If only the world knew you for the monster you really are!”

“Oh, shut up,” Shizuo says, and Izaya starts to laugh even before Shizuo ducks his head to drop a kiss against his forehead. “Sit down and you’ll get your date.”

They settle on opposite sides of the table, with the flat of the surface between them and their knees just touching underneath, mostly due to the fact that Izaya stretches his feet out into Shizuo’s footspace and kicks idly against the other’s ankle until Shizuo catches the other’s leg between both of his and gives Izaya a flat look from across the table. Izaya grins in return, not even bothering with giving an impression of guilt he doesn’t feel, and Shizuo rolls his eyes and ducks behind the menu as if it will do any good at all in hiding the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Izaya grins, and reaches for a menu, and occupies himself in gazing at the familiar options before him while he waits for something more to happen.

The sound of the restaurant door opening is enough to pull Shizuo’s attention up from his menu, although Izaya doesn’t glance up. He doesn’t need to; the hour and the date are both enough to tell him who has just come in, and it’s hardly as if their faces would familiar to him in any case. He purses his lips at the menu instead, making a show of contemplating the options while his attention fixes instead on the conversation between the couple that have just come in the door.

“We could go somewhere else, you know.” That’s a girl’s voice, sweetened with a pretense of flirtation and the comfort of familiarity; she sounds like she’s mostly teasing, although there’s something of sincerity under her tone as well. “There are other places a lot closer to school than this one.”

“But this one has such happy memories!” And that’s the one Izaya’s been waiting for, the high pich of youth just starting to crack into a slightly lower range and the gaps between the two covered with a singsongy tone that makes the speaker sound charming, and graceful, and patently insincere. It’s a suitable tone for one exuding as much charisma as Izaya knows the speaker must carry; and it proves his naÏveté as well, if he’s relying wholly on this brand of childish enthusiasm to carry him down the shadowy paths he’s been heading. “Every time I think of Russia Sushi I think of when I came in the door and saw a lonely angel sitting in the corner!”

“Don’t be silly,” the girl says; but she sounds amused anyway, and from the way the boy laughs he can tell as much as clearly as Izaya can. “It’s not a very romantic place for a first meeting.”

“It is to me,” the boy says. “Anywhere is a paradise if you’re there!”

“You say that to all your girlfriends,” the girl says.

“But I only mean it with you.” The sound of footsteps, scuffing and uneven as the boy makes his way down the aisle. “Honest, Saki, I swear you’re the love of my life!”

“Really?” the girl Saki asks. “So thirty years from now you’ll still be taking me out for sushi at the place we first met?”

“Of course,” the boy replies. “It’s our place. Even after I become rich and famous and we live in a mansion together we’ll still come back here to this restaurant and this--” and his words cut off abruptly as he turns to see Shizuo and Izaya sitting at the booth he was heading towards. Izaya can see Shizuo glance up, can see the other’s mouth curve down on a frown, but he doesn’t look up to see the boy or the girl hovering a few feet away; he flattens the menu before him instead, making a show of pointing out one of the options on the laminated sheet.

“What do you think about this one, sen--” he starts, speaking loudly as he lifts his head towards the other; only to cut himself off in a show of confusion as he sees Shizuo not looking at him and turns his head to follow the fixed gaze the other is giving to their audience.

Both the other two are standing in the aisle of the restaurant, gazes fixed on Shizuo and Izaya before them. Saki is a little farther behind, rocking back on her heels like she’s thinking about suggesting a retreat, but the boy is far closer, standing so near his shadow is falling over the span of the table Izaya and Shizuo are leaning over. He has a friendly face, wide-open eyes and a mess of tousled brown hair; he looks utterly harmless, like any other middle schooler out on a date with his girlfriend. But there’s a scarf tucked into the collar of his white sweatshirt, the bright yellow of it sweeping around his neck a jaunty accessory, and besides Izaya doesn’t need to see the proof of the other’s gang membership to know who he is.

This is who he came here to meet, after all.

“I’m sorry,” Izaya says now, pitching his voice clear and innocent to match the polite smile he gives the other two, a greeting with just a hint of uncomfortable confusion behind it. “Can we help you?”

“Masaomi, it’s fine,” the girl says, stepping forward to reach for the sleeve of the boy’s sweater and tug against it. “There’s lots of other empty seats, it’s not a big deal.”

“No,” the boy says, and tugs his sleeve free of the girl’s hold without looking back at her. “It _is_ a big deal.” And he sweeps into a bow low enough that it makes him look like an actor on a stage, as if he’s elevating the whole of this conversation to the heights of melodrama for the moment.

“Gentlemen!” he declaims, straightening with a flourish that tosses his hair back from his face and brings his arm sweeping up over him. “I do apologize for interrupting your meal, and I do realize this is a terribly presumptuous demand; but might my girlfriend and I persuade you to claim a different booth for the present?”

“Sure,” Izaya says, over Shizuo’s huff of frustrated confusion and without letting his smile so much as flicker. “Mind if I ask why you’re so attached to this location?”

“Not at all!” Masaomi beams. “This is the exact place I first met Saki!” He looks back behind him to reach for his girlfriend’s arm and tug her gently forward; she comes in obedience to his urging, even though she’s flushing and ducking her head to half-hide the embarrassed smile at her mouth. Masaomi doesn’t appear at all embarrassed; he’s turning back to grin at Izaya even as he fits his arm around Saki’s waist to pull her in against him. “We come here every month to celebrate, and it’s tradition for us to eat at the same table we did the first time!”

“What a sweet story,” Izaya smiles. “Of course, we’ll be happy to move.” He disentangles his legs from Shizuo’s and slides towards the end of the bench to suit actions to words as quickly as he gives them. “Come on, Shizuo, let’s leave the young lovers to their date.” Shizuo grumbles something under his breath that Izaya is fairly sure is aimed at him rather than at the other two, but he moves all the same, setting his menu back in place against the wall and lifting a hand to push through his hair as he shifts to follow Izaya’s retreat. Izaya keeps watching him, pretending complete disinterest in the other two until finally, just as Shizuo is pushing to his feet:

“Excuse me,” Saki asks, her words apologetic but her voice clear. “I’m sorry to be rude, but are you Orihara Izaya?”

Izaya tips his head to look back at her and opens his eyes wide in a show of surprise. “Indeed I am,” he says. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall meeting you before, you’ll have to forgive my forgetfulness.”

Saki shakes her head. “We’ve never met,” she says quickly, waving a hand to brush aside this suggestion. “I’ve just heard of you around town, you and your boyf--bodyguard.”

Izaya’s mouth turns up sharply at the corner, dragging itself towards a smile he doesn’t have to exaggerate at all, this time. “Ah,” he says. “Yes, Shizu-chan is very recognizable, isn’t he?” He tips his head back and up to flash a smirk to answer the exasperation Shizuo is frowning down at him. “He _does_ make an excellent bodyguard. And a decent boyfriend too, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Saki says, blinking hard as Izaya lets his shoulder tilt back to bump against Shizuo’s chest so the other takes some measure of his weight. “You really _are_ dating, then?”

“Indeed we are,” Izaya tells her. “Not _all_ the rumors are gross exaggerations, at least. Though if you want to know which ones are trustworthy we’ll have to talk business some other time” coupled with a wink as much to pull a groan from Shizuo as to widen Saki’s eyes with curiosity. “Enjoy your date!”

“Wait!” The exclamation comes fast, blurted into the space between them before Izaya has even started to turn to leave; but it’s from Masaomi, this time, not Saki, and coupled with a grab at Izaya’s sleeve as the other steps forward to crowd closer. “You’re Orihara Izaya? The informant?” Masaomi’s expression is glowing, his mouth turning up on a delighted grin as he looks up at Izaya with shining eyes. “You’re a legend around here! I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you, this is awesome!” He reaches up for his collar, catching his fingers into the neck of his sweater to drag the fabric down and show off the scarf half-tucked inside, as if it wasn’t perfectly clear to see beforehand. “I’m part of this new gang, the Yellow Scarves. Have you heard of them?”

“Of course,” Izaya says, offering the words like they’re an obvious fact rather than the cutting edge of the rumors that constantly hover like a haze around the city. “They’re the new big thing, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Masaomi says, and lets Izaya’s sleeve go to straighten his shoulders and lift his head into self-conscious pleasure. “I’m actually the founder.”

Izaya opens his eyes as wide as they’ll go. “ _Really_ ,” he says, putting on a tone of the most convincing shock he can manage. It feels a little overdone to him -- and to Shizuo, judging from the way the other huffs over his shoulder -- but Masaomi just seems to swell the greater with pride from it, and even Saki is flushing and smiling over her boyfriend’s shoulder. “What a lucky coincidence for us both to run into each other. It’s always good to know who the major players in the city are.” Izaya straightens from his lean against Shizuo behind him and offers a polite bow to Masaomi. “Let me introduce myself formally. Orihara Izaya, at your service.”

“Kida Masaomi,” Masaomi says, his whole face glowing with self-conscious pride. “This is my girlfriend Saki.”

“Nice to meet you,” Izaya says, nodding to Saki as well. “And I’m sure you’ve heard of Heiwajima Shizuo?” He grins at Masaomi’s rushed nod and Saki’s wide-eyed stare. “He’s the real power in the city. I just try to keep him as much under control as I can.” That gets a growl from Shizuo, and a glare so dark Izaya can feel it burning against him, but he just grins the wider and ducks into another bow. “I’m so glad we happened to run into each other. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s anything you need; I’m always happy to help people who are just getting started!” He reaches for Shizuo’s hand, maintaining his smile even when Shizuo closes his grip on Izaya’s fingers with somewhat more force than is technically necessary under the circumstances. “See you later!”

“Yes!” Masaomi says, sounding a little breathless as he lifts a hand to wave at the two of them as Shizuo pulls Izaya away bodily. “I’ll be in touch!”

“Looking forward to it!” Izaya shouts back; and then Shizuo gets an arm up around his shoulders, and pulls him forward with some force, and Izaya lets himself be turned as he stumbles in an effort to get his feet under him. “Calm down, Shizu-chan, there’s no need to get jealous.”

“I’m _not_ \--” Shizuo starts, snapping the words to an edge as he looks down to scowl at Izaya; and then he sees the way the other is grinning at him, and his protest dies to a sigh and an eyeroll instead. “You’re _meddling_.”

Izaya laughs, the amusement coming easy to his lips as he lifts his arm to catch around Shizuo’s waist and pull the other in closer as they move farther into the restaurant. “I’m not,” he insists. “I’m just keeping abreast of the up-and-coming players in the excitement of the city. It’s literally my _job_.”

“ _Trouble_ ,” Shizuo says, still growling the words; but his hand is sliding up to ruffle through Izaya’s hair as he pulls the other in against him, and Izaya doesn’t let his grin go as he tips his head to bump against Shizuo’s shoulder. “I can’t take you anywhere at all.”

“What’s the alternative?” Izaya asks against the front of Shizuo’s vest with some interest. “I keep telling you you can tie me down to the bed, I don’t mind. You could even confiscate my clothes, if you wa--” and that’s as far as he gets before Shizuo claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the patter of his speech to muffled incoherence.

“You be quiet,” Shizuo says as he pulls them around the corner into the currently empty back room of the shop. “Your mouth gets everyone in trouble.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, and waits until Shizuo pulls his hand away to let him speak. “You seem to be rather fond of it in any case.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, “I am” and then he’s ducking down, and his mouth is pressing hard against Izaya’s with so little warning that Izaya is left staring shock at the yellow of Shizuo’s hair before his eyes while the heat of the other’s lips melts against his own. It’s only for a moment; then he hums pleasure in the back of his throat, and shuts his eyes, and when he tips in towards Shizuo it’s to wind his arms up and around the other’s neck while Shizuo’s hold falls to his hips to brace him in place. They stay there for a moment, hidden from the main part of the restaurant by the corner of the wall they’ve just come around; and then there’s a half-muffled inhale of shock, and Shizuo and Izaya break apart as Shizuo’s fingers tighten at Izaya’s hips. Izaya is left blinking distraction from his eyes and trying to collect his thoughts until Shizuo clears his throat and says “We’ll be eating back here, actually” to someone over Izaya’s head.

Izaya looks over his shoulder, glancing back without letting his grip on Shizuo’s neck go; the silent blonde waitress is standing just at the entrance to the kitchen, her gaze fixed on the pair of them and her hands full with a tray bearing two cups of the green tea that always begins a meal here. She stares at Shizuo for a moment, her eyes clear and focused; and then her gaze drops to Izaya, her attention barely flickering over him before she ducks her head in understanding. Shizuo clears his throat again, and loosens his hold on Izaya’s hips to reach for the other’s hand instead, and after a moment Izaya lets his grip go enough to allow Shizuo to lead him back towards one of the more private booths tucked away in the quiet of the otherwise unoccupied dining room. The waitress trails after them, coming in to deposit both cups of tea carefully at the edge of the table; but Izaya barely glances at her for how preoccupied he is in leaning over the table and purring at Shizuo in an attempt to tug the tension of the other’s smile free into one of those warm laughs that lights up the whole of his face and chases away whatever lingering exasperation he might be carrying.

Izaya is very good at finding trouble, but it’s always just as much fun to get himself out of it again.


	3. Advice

“Did you hear the latest news, Shizu-chan?” Izaya asks without looking up from the computer screen in front of him. “Your favorite middle schooler is getting into all kinds of new trouble.”

“He’s not my favorite middle schooler,” Shizuo tells him from where he’s lying on the couch, flipping through the same manga volume he’s been working through all morning. “I just don’t want you to drag him into more trouble than he’s already finding for himself.”

“You have such a low opinion of my influence,” Izaya says. “I’d think you’d be more forgiving after all these years together.”

“I know you too well for that,” Shizuo says. “After experiencing it firsthand I don’t want anyone else to have to deal with you if I can help it.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, and leans forward so he can brace his elbow at the edge of his desk and look at Shizuo around the corner of his computer monitor. “You know if you’re that jealous of my attention you could just say so.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh without looking away from the manga he’s holding over himself. “I’m not jealous,” he says, comfortably enough that he sounds sincere and makes Izaya scrunch up his nose in a pout that goes wholly unnoticed by his distracted boyfriend. “I just know the kind of trouble you got _me_ into. Just let the kids be kids.”

“Kids start gangs,” Izaya tells him, and pushes away from the computer desk to get to his feet and stretch ostentatiously. Shizuo’s gaze flickers to the motion, tracking the shift of Izaya’s arms and the edge of his shirt as the hem pulls up with the action, but he doesn’t say anything, and when Izaya lets his arms fall again Shizuo looks right back to his comic, which at least proves that he’s pretending to ignore Izaya on purpose. “Should I just leave them to their own devices without a word of advice to guide them?”

“It might be better for them,” Shizuo says. “They won’t fall in with the yakuza that way, at least.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow and leans back against the edge of the desk behind him. “ _I_ did.”

“Yeah, but you’re you,” Shizuo says with perfect equanimity. “You’re always as deep in shady dealings as you can be.”

Izaya pouts. “That’s not fair,” he says, and straightens from the desk to come forward over the open space of the apartment between them. “You make it sound like some kind of natural instinct I have.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not at all.” Izaya steps in towards the end of the couch, where Shizuo has both feet kicked up against the arm opposite the pile of pillows he’s made for his head at the other end. Izaya leaves the other’s feet where they are without trying to dislodge them, instead reaching out to brace a hand at the back of the couch to steady himself so he can climb in to straddle Shizuo’s thighs. Shizuo huffs a breath as Izaya’s weight presses down against him, the sound the only concession to noticing the movement he makes, and Izaya takes the opportunity to settle himself in closer, to slide his knees up and grind himself down against Shizuo’s hips in an ostensible effort to adjust his weight that he’s sure is as transparent to Shizuo as it feels to him. “I’ve just been trying to keep up with you all this time, Shizuo-senpai.”

Shizuo still isn’t looking away from his manga, but Izaya’s close enough now to see the details of his expression: in this case, the lift of his eyebrow and the tension at his mouth at this particular claim. “Is that so?”

“Of course,” Izaya purrs, reaching down to brace his hands against Shizuo’s chest to hold himself steady while he rocks in over the other’s hips. “You were so amazing from the moment I met you, the only way to keep your attention was to become just as incredible myself.”

Shizuo lifts his manga at that, raising it up and over his head so he can give Izaya a flat look. “Are you really trying to claim now that all that trouble you got into was _my_ fault?”

“It was,” Izaya tells him, taking advantage of Shizuo’s movement to lean in against the other’s chest and slide a hand up and around the back of Shizuo’s neck. “I just wanted to impress you, senpai.”

“Impress me by scaring me half to death?” Shizuo asks as he lets his hold on the manga go and drops his arm down and around Izaya’s shoulders instead. “I remember being a lot more worried than impressed.”

“But you were thinking about me,” Izaya says, as satisfied by this statement as by Shizuo’s movement to reach out and set the manga down without easing his steadying hold around Izaya’s shoulders. “So it _was_ effective, in the end.”

“As if I would forget about you,” Shizuo says, and wraps his other arm around Izaya too as he pulls him into a more comfortable position on the couch. “You’re not exactly ordinary, you know, Izaya.”

“Exactly,” Izaya says against Shizuo’s neck. “That’s not an easy task for those of us who aren’t superhuman to begin with. It takes real effort, Shizu-chan.”

“Okay,” Shizuo says, sounding unconvinced, but there’s the purr of amusement in his chest too, and his hand is pushing up to ruffle through Izaya’s hair and cradle the back of his head in against Shizuo’s shoulder, so Izaya isn’t about to protest. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Izaya says. “You should appreciate the effort I put into maintaining your interest a little more.”

“You didn’t have to maintain anything,” Shizuo tells him, turning his head so Izaya can feel the shift of the words against his forehead. “You could have just trusted that I would go on being helplessly infatuated with you.”

“Hmm.” Izaya ducks closer against Shizuo’s shoulder and slides his free hand up to tug at the clip of the other’s tie. “Sounds risky. You know how I hate to take chances.”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “Are we even talking about the same person?”

“I don’t know,” Izaya says, and lifts his head to meet Shizuo’s smile with one of his own. “Are you actually in love with my evil twin, senpai?”

Shizuo lifts his hand to stroke through Izaya’s hair and urge the weight of it back and off the other’s face. “I’m pretty sure if you had a twin you would be the evil one.”

“Lucky for you I don’t,” Izaya tells him. “Instead you get everything all rolled up into one irresistible package.”

Shizuo’s smile lights up his whole face. “You _are_ pretty irresistible.”

“Then all my hard work has paid off,” Izaya tells him, and Shizuo laughs and urges him down into a kiss. Izaya submits without any resistance at all -- it’s easy to capitulate when this is what he wanted in the first place -- and for a while he sets aside all his attention to the goings-on of the Yellow Scarves, and the rival gangs, and the city itself for his focus on this exact location within Ikebukuro, in the comfort of his own home and lying across his own overwide couch while Shizuo turns them sideways to pin Izaya back between the breadth of his shoulders and the back of the couch. There’s a satisfaction to that, too, to having the solid weight of Shizuo’s body bracing him still while Shizuo’s hands frame his face and turn his chin up for the glancing kisses the other favors when he’s relaxed like this, or the longer, lingering explorations Shizuo makes when Izaya winds his fingers into bleached-yellow hair and parts his lips in invitation, or even just the pleasant comfort of breathing the same overheated air while Shizuo’s hands wander over Izaya’s body with appreciation more idle than intent. It would be easy to coax him to more, if Izaya wanted; but there’s a pleasure to lingering here, too, to letting the heat running through their blood glow with comfortable warmth instead of rising to the fever of active desire. Izaya winds his arms around Shizuo’s neck, and tangles his fingers into the pale of Shizuo’s hair, and dedicates himself to losing a solid hour in appreciation of the fit of the other’s mouth against his.

They do a good job of it. Izaya doesn’t know how long it’s been when there’s finally something to stir him from the drowsy almost-reverie he’s fallen into; his vision is unfocused, his thoughts are hazy, and his whole attention is fixed on the friction of Shizuo’s mouth against the collar of his shirt, where the other is currently occupied in printing a line of kisses against Izaya’s shoulder. Izaya would be happy to stay here for the rest of the day, if he could; but then there’s an electronic chime, the sound of a notification from a cell phone, and Izaya blinks himself back into clarity just as Shizuo huffs an exhale against the midpoint of his collarbones. “Is that yours or mine?”

“Mine,” Izaya says, and tips his head to scan for said device without freeing his hold on the waves of Shizuo’s hair. It’s not in his pocket, which is a little inconvenient but probably better than running the risk of accidentally answering in the middle of situations like these; luckily it’s not so far away he has to actually get from up the couch either. He can see the notification light blinking from the coffee table, a few inches out of his own reach where he’s tucked back against the couch cushions by Shizuo’s hold but well within range for the other. “Hand it to me.”

“Where is it?” Shizuo asks without lifting his head, but the question is mostly rhetorical, given how rapidly he extricates his arm from under Izaya and reaches sideways to fumble blind for the phone. He misses it on his first pass, nearly knocks it off the table on his second, and finally does turn to blink at what he’s doing so he can get a grip on it and hand it up to Izaya’s reaching grasp.

“Thank you,” Izaya tells him, already lifting the phone over his face so he can see who’s calling. He’d answer right away if it were one of his Awakusu contacts, would probably let it ring to voicemail to be handled later if it were Shinra or one of their other friends; but he doesn’t have the number in his list of contacts, although the area code is from within the city itself. Izaya frowns at the screen for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of answering; and then Shizuo gets his arm back in around Izaya to settle back to what he was doing, and Izaya smiles and gives the caller the benefit of the doubt as he taps the _Answer_ button.

“Afternoon,” he drawls against the receiver as he brings the phone to his ear without drawing his wandering fingers out of Shizuo’s hair. “Orihara Izaya speaking.”

“ _Orihara-san_.” It’s a girl’s voice, so audibly young Izaya wonders for a moment if it’s Mairu calling from a pay phone or a friend’s cell; but the greeting is wrong, the tone lacking his sister’s rapidfire energy, and the voice is vaguely familiar from somewhere else, though Izaya can’t place it for a moment. “ _Good afternoon. This is Mikajima Saki._ ”

“Mikajima-san,” Izaya repeats back, still struggling with placing that flicker of recognition; and then he processes the girl’s first name, and everything falls into place at once with the memory of a boy’s lilting tone and the dramatic sweep of an arm to gesture towards the figure standing just behind him. “Ah, yes. You’re Kida Masaomi’s girl.” Shizuo makes a sound against Izaya’s shoulder and lifts his head to frown, but Izaya just pushes his hand through the other’s hair by way of comfort and adjusts his grip on the phone at his ear. “What can I help you with?”

“ _Ah_ ,” Saki says. “ _Yes. It’s about Masaomi, actually_.”

“Are you worried he’s cheating on you?” Izaya asks. “I can’t tell you off the top of my head, but if you want me to look into it I could see what I could find.”

“ _No_.” Decisive, that answer, so forceful Izaya’s eyebrows jump up. He hadn’t thought the girl was much more than a pretty face to hover at Masaomi’s arm, but her tone now is more steady than anything Masaomi offered during the whole of their interaction at the restaurant. “ _That’s not the problem. I trust Masaomi_.”

“That’s a good start,” Izaya says. “But there must be some kind of a problem or you wouldn’t be calling me, would you?”

“ _That’s true_.” There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation as Saki collects herself; Izaya lets his fingers wander through Shizuo’s hair, encouraging the other to return to what he was doing even through Shizuo’s now lifted his head to frown attention to Izaya’s call instead. Finally Saki takes a breath to brace herself to speak.

“ _I don’t think he’s cheating on me,_ ” Saki says, her voice clear and so unflinching Izaya can’t imagine any cracks of uncertainty on it. “ _Right now, at least. But he’s getting more involved with the Yellow Scarves every day, it takes up more and more of his time_.”

“I see,” Izaya says. “And you want him to quit and pay more attention to you?”

“ _No_.” That decisive tone again, landing almost like a blow to scatter Izaya’s half-formed assumptions. “ _I want to know how to keep up with him_.”

Izaya blinks at the ceiling overhead, feeling shock prickle down his spine like electricity. He had pegged Masaomi as the reckless one, had considered Saki to be not much more than the latest girlfriend of the week to let the boy pass the time; but he can feel his estimation shifting, can feel himself starting to smile as his assumptions crumble entirely under this newest piece of information to reform themselves into something wholly novel based on the force of Saki’s words.

“You’re worried he’s going to leave you behind,” Izaya says without preamble.

Saki doesn’t so much as hesitate. “ _Yes_.”

“He’s becoming a major player in the city,” Izaya tells her. “He’s getting involved in some dangerous games. Are you sure you want to play them with him?”

“ _I am_ ,” Saki says, sounding as determined as Izaya hoped she would. “ _I don’t want to be left out of things_.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, and smiles up at the ceiling. “You came to the right person for that.”

Shizuo groans in the back of his throat from where he’s sprawling half-atop Izaya. “Izaya…”

Izaya frees his hand from Shizuo’s hair to reach down instead and press his fingers over the other’s mouth to hush him. Shizuo sighs against his palm, the rush of his exhale enough to register his disapproval, but he doesn’t go on talking, and Izaya is left to take a breath against the receiver of the phone as he forms his reply.

“The thing about keeping up with extraordinary people,” Izaya says, forming his words with all the authority he can while Shizuo’s lips are pressing close against his skin, “is that you have to figure out how to become extraordinary yourself.” Izaya glances down at Shizuo and lets his mouth catch on a smile as he trails his fingers down and over the other’s lips; Shizuo huffs a laugh, the sound soft enough it sounds almost like a purr, and his lashes dip as he lets his hold on Izaya’s hip go to reach for his wrist instead, to hold Izaya’s hand steady as he tips his head to kiss in against the inside of the other’s fingers. Izaya opens his hand, letting his fingers spread for Shizuo to trail against each of them, and he lets himself relax back against the couch cushions beneath him, lets his eyes shuts as his attention holds as much to the shift of Shizuo’s lips as to the words at his own. “You have to do whatever it takes to keep their attention on you.”

“ _I see_ ,” Saki says; but Izaya is only barely listening to her, even if he still has his phone pressing close to his ear. “ _So I need to make myself as interesting as anything else Masaomi is doing_.”

“Yep,” Izaya says. “That’s how I did it, anyway.” He presses his thumb to Shizuo’s lips, tracing over the curve of them without looking. “And I’d say it worked out pretty well for me.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Saki says over the sound of Shizuo laughing soft against the press of Izaya’s fingers. “ _I believe I understand. Thank you for the advice_.”

“Anytime,” Izaya tells her. “I’m always happy to have new customers.”

“ _That’s right_ ,” Saki says. Izaya tries to pay attention to what she’s saying; it’s difficult, with Shizuo working up his wrist and urging the sleeve of his shirt back to kiss at the pulse point just under the delicate skin. “ _What do I owe you?_ ”

“Ah,” Izaya says, and presses his lips together to fight coherency back into his voice. “Nothing. It’s on the house.”

“ _Are you sure?_ ”

Izaya nods. “Yes,” he says. Shizuo is pushing his sleeve up higher over the line of his forearm as he turns Izaya’s arm up to the light so he can trail the friction of his mouth up the pale inside of the other’s forearm. “I’m always a champion of young love. Best of luck to you both.”

“ _Oh_.” There’s a breath of hesitation, like maybe Saki’s thinking of protesting, or of asking something else; but in the end she does neither, just huffs a sigh against the phone receiver. “ _Thank you again_.”

“You’re welcome,” Izaya says. “I have to run--” as Shizuo’s lips fit to the inside of his elbow, as his skin tingles hot with the contact, “--but I’ll look forward to hearing from you again. See you!” And he’s pulling the phone back from his ear, tabbing out of the call and dropping his phone back to the table even as Saki is offering a “ _Goodbye_ ” in answer.

“You give the _worst_ advice,” Shizuo says against the inside of Izaya’s arm, his lips dragging friction in their wake as Izaya tips back in to curl around Shizuo against him and tug his leg free so he can hook it up and around Shizuo’s hip. “Did you know?”

“I do not,” Izaya says, without caring particularly about the words for the attention he’s giving to resettling himself back as they were before the phone interrupted them. “That was perfectly reasonable.”

Shizuo snorts. “You have _never_ been reasonable.”

“Fine then,” Izaya says. “What would _you_ have told her?”

“To be herself,” Shizuo says immediately. “If he likes her that’s enough by itself.”

Izaya heaves a sigh. “That’s so boring.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says. “I guess I’m just an ordinary person after all.” He lifts his head to look up from under the fall of his hair at Izaya as his mouth pulls on a smile. “So is your extraordinary self going to pack up and leave now?”

Izaya sticks out his tongue at Shizuo. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Shizuo grins. “That’s what I thought” and he comes back up to return to where they left off.

Izaya’s phone stays within reach on the coffee table, but Izaya doesn’t look back for it, and it doesn’t ring again for the rest of the afternoon.


	4. Aside

“Hurry up, Shizu-chan,” Izaya whines without bothering to give the words any semblance of sincerity. “You were in such a rush out in the living room, I thought you had something in mind more than teasing me. Are you trying to pay me back for last week?” He presses his lips tight together and swallows hard to fight the strain in his throat back to the illusion of calm. “I keep telling you I wasn’t properly awake yet, you can’t hold me accountable for my dreams. And you got what you wanted from me then anyway. Isn’t it enough that you made me late for our meeting downtown?”

Shizuo huffs an exhale Izaya can feel thrum up his spine and radiate heat against the back of his head before the other pulls up and away from the attention he has been giving to the flushed heat of Izaya’s body beneath him. “You know,” he says, with remarkable calm given how heat-pink his cheeks are. “I can’t _actually_ answer you while I have your cock in my mouth.”

“I didn’t say I was expecting an answer,” Izaya tells him, and reaches out to curl his fingers into Shizuo’s hair and push the fall of it back from the other’s face while Shizuo gazes up at him. “I was talking to myself. What, were you listening?” He lifts his other hand to his mouth as he catches over a breath in imitation of embarrassment. “Now I’m going to be self-conscious about the sounds you get me to make.”

Shizuo’s laugh rumbles in the back of his throat, dropping so low and heavy that Izaya can feel the purr of it as well as he can hear it. “Is that so,” he says, and ducks his head back down to turn his attention back to Izaya’s hips instead of to the other’s face. “Let’s see if I can distract you then.” And then he’s ducking down, returning his attention to the aching curve of Izaya’s cock, and Izaya tips his head back, letting his speech give way to a groan instead as he drops his other hand to wind into Shizuo’s hair alongside the first, as if the grip of his fingers is likely to achieve anything at all with regards to Shizuo’s rhythm. The other is moving faster right away, dropping into a far quicker pace than the languid exploration he’s been offering since he picked Izaya up bodily from the living room and carried him in here; and Izaya can feel his coherency giving way as quickly, as if every slick slide of Shizuo’s mouth over him is stripping words from his vocabulary in exchange for the faroff ache of rising arousal spreading through his veins.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya manages, struggling over the words as his fingers twist tighter, as his legs twitch with the desire to rock up, to thrust hard into the heat of Shizuo’s mouth and over the hot wet of his tongue, the dragging friction of his lips. “You... _ah_ ” as Shizuo tips his head to the side to press his lips to suck against the base of Izaya’s shaft, as his tongue slides up to drag smooth against the swollen ridge just under the head. Izaya whimpers without meaning to, his voice breaking open in spite of his best attempts to swallow back the helpless noises that Shizuo always draws from him, whether with his mouth or his fingers or his cock. Izaya’s wrists shift, his arms flex; against him Shizuo purrs some low sound that Izaya can feel pool low in his abdomen, can feel spark at the base of his spine. “Oh, fuck, Shizuo.” Shizuo lowers his weight by an inch, shifting to lie against the mattress more than holding himself up over Izaya’s hips; the shift frees his hands, which he promptly puts to good use in sliding under one of Izaya’s thighs to angle the other’s legs wider while the other comes up to brace unbreakable strength at Izaya’s hip. Izaya shudders with the heat of it, feels the tremor in him run up and stall to stillness against Shizuo’s grip, and when he takes a breath this time he can feel it turn over on the arousal coursing through him, can feel it draw the weight of anticipation out through the whole of his body even as his fingers clutch into Shizuo’s hair to hold the other closer against him.

“Don’t stop,” Izaya chokes out, feeling the words stick in his chest, feeling heat flutter at his lashes. “Oh god, _fuck_ , Shizuo, you--” and Shizuo slides up and over him, drawing the motion long and lingering, and Izaya’s voice breaks into a high, breathless range he could never hit if he were aiming for it. His hips jerk, bucking up reflexively in an attempt to break free of Shizuo’s hold on him; but Shizuo just tightens his fingers, and groans in the back of his throat, and pushes in closer to take Izaya all the way back into the heat of his mouth. Izaya can feel his thighs trembling, can feel his toes curling; and then Shizuo hums against him, the vibration purring up from the depths of his chest to crackle electricity through Izaya’s whole body, and Izaya gasps, and jerks, and comes in a rush over the drag of Shizuo’s tongue on him. Shizuo’s fingers tighten, Shizuo ducks in closer against Izaya’s hips; but Izaya doesn’t have the attention to spare for the details, not when his whole existence is going warm and white and languid with satisfaction. The tension drains out of him, spending itself with each wave of heat that tightens his body from the curl of his toes to the haze of his vision, until when Shizuo finally eases Izaya back down to the bed and slides up and away Izaya is left blinking dazed heat at the ceiling, his vision clear but his thoughts drifting like clouds in a summer sky. The bed shifts, the mattress moving beneath them as Shizuo pushes himself up off the sheets so he can slide in closer, and then there’s the friction of a smile dragging against Izaya’s jaw and the huff of Shizuo’s breath tickling at the side of his neck.

“I love sucking you off,” Shizuo confides to the curve of Izaya’s throat. Izaya tips his head to the side to give himself over to the warm press of Shizuo’s lips to his skin, and Shizuo responds immediately with a kiss against the rhythm of Izaya’s pulse in his throat. “You always get so dazed afterwards.”

“Be quiet,” Izaya tries, but the words come so slow he knows they’re useless well before Shizuo snorts a laugh against his shoulder. He lifts a hand to catch at the back of the other’s head and slide pleasure-clumsy fingers through the fall of Shizuo’s hair. “You have a natural talent for fellatio. If it were someone else I’m sure I would be just fine.”

Shizuo growls against Izaya’s neck; his hand draws up to catch against the bare line of the other’s hip. “No one had better be sucking you off but me.”

Izaya smiles. “What’s the matter, senpai?” he purrs, and lets his elbow slide up and around to cradle Shizuo’s head in the crook of his arm. “You aren’t getting jealous, are you?”

“No.” Shizuo kisses against Izaya’s neck again and pulls to urge their bodies closer together. “I don’t need to be.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. “That’s true.” He turns in towards Shizuo leaning over him and lifts his leg up to hook his knee around the other’s hip; Shizuo pulls back obediently, tipping away to fall back over the bed and take Izaya with him to invert their positions over the rumple of the sheets beneath them. Izaya loosens his hold on Shizuo’s head so he can brace his elbow against the mattress instead and push himself up enough to smile shadows down at Shizuo under him. “You have me wrapped around your little finger.”

Shizuo’s snort is warmer than it is skeptical. “You have your subjects mixed up a little, I think.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth at once. “Is that so?” he asks, and lifts his free hand before him to frown at the spread of his fingers. “I don’t see any leash.” He tips his head to the side and lets his gaze drift over Shizuo’s bare chest and down to the elastic edge of the other’s boxers clinging to his hips. “Unless you were speaking metaphorically.” He reaches down to ghost his fingers over the curve of Shizuo’s waist, skimming the other’s skin until Shizuo’s breathing catches in his chest before Izaya hooks his little finger just inside the other’s boxers, where the crease of Shizuo’s hip makes a divot under the tug of the elastic. The fabric draws out, letting light slide in to play over shadowed skin, and Izaya casts his gaze back up through the weight of his lashes to meet Shizuo’s heavy-lidded stare as he slides his fingertips in and down to press against the flex of muscle in the other’s hip, to follow the line down to soft curls and heavy heat, to the weight of Shizuo’s balls and the thick resistance of his cock. Izaya watches Shizuo’s face as he draws his fingertips up, measuring the friction of his grip by the motion in Shizuo’s throat and the part of the other’s lips before he rocks his hips forward to settle himself atop Shizuo’s thigh and curls his fingers into a grip at the base of the other’s cock.

“Maybe you’re right,” he muses, keeping his gaze fixed on Shizuo’s face as the other’s breath spills from his lungs, as Shizuo’s body arches up to meet the pull of Izaya’s fingers over him. “Or almost right, anyway. You certainly seem to come apart when I have _my_ fingers wrapped around _you_.” Shizuo groans and lifts a hand to brace at Izaya’s shoulder, to slide his fingers up and against the back of the other’s neck; Izaya tips his head to the side to surrender to the force of it as he pulls up over Shizuo in a long, smooth stroke, drawing the motion slow so he can press his thumb to the head of Shizuo’s cock and drag the slip of wet heat there in and against the swell of the head. “How’s that coherency treating you, senpai?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo groans, and his fingers tighten at the back of Izaya’s neck, his hips jerk up to thrust against Izaya’s sliding fingers. “ _Izaya_.”

“Mm.” Izaya lets himself tip in closer, lets his weight angle down to press close against Shizuo’s chest; it makes it harder to move his hand, but it’s worth the inconvenience, and from the way Shizuo is breathing a little loss of dexterity won’t be much of a problem. “I love jerking you off,” he says, tipping in closer so the words fall just against the gasp of Shizuo’s breathing as arousal drags rough in the other’s inhales, as heat twitches hot in his cock in Izaya’s hold. “You always get so dazed when I touch you.” Shizuo’s lips curve, his breath spills into the start of a laugh, like he might be about to say something; but Izaya just twists his hand, pressing tighter as he jerks up over Shizuo beneath him, and the flicker of amusement melts away from Shizuo’s expression as his mouth goes slack, as his face relaxes into the premonition of pleasure. Izaya hums in the back of his throat, satisfaction as sweet secondhand as his own was before, and he steadies himself where he’s leaning against Shizuo, leaning in to bump his forehead against the other’s and breathe hot against Shizuo’s lips. Shizuo tips his head, his lashes still shadowing his gaze but instinct bringing his mouth in towards Izaya’s and tightening his pull at the back of the other’s neck; and then Izaya jerks up hard, and Shizuo’s whole body spasms beneath him, the other’s breathing gusting hot over Izaya’s lips as Shizuo groans through the force of his orgasm. Izaya hums satisfaction and ducks in to press his mouth to Shizuo’s, to catch the jolts of aftershock pleasure as he strokes the other through the tremors of sensation; even after Shizuo’s gone slack and heavy with relief beneath him, Izaya just draws his hand up to brace at the other’s hip, letting himself lean hard against the support of Shizuo’s body and press kisses against the other’s parted lips until Shizuo collects himself enough to meet them in kind.

Izaya isn’t sure how long they stay there. Long enough for the adrenaline in his own veins to ease, at least; long enough for the wet at his fingers to dry sticky between his skin and Shizuo’s. It goes unmeasured, seconds stretching into minutes sprawling as lazy in his thoughts as the two of them are lying over the bed; until finally Shizuo heaves a sigh, and Izaya hears the weight of resignation to movement under the sound. “I need a shower.”

“You do,” Izaya agrees; as if his own fingers aren’t as sticky as Shizuo’s stomach, as if he doesn’t still have the damp of Shizuo’s lips clinging to his hips and against the hollow of his navel where Shizuo lingered in the first round of distracting kisses he offered in the living room. “Get out of here, I’m done with you.”

Shizuo’s laugh rumbles in his chest under Izaya’s. “You got what you wanted out of me?”

“That’s right,” Izaya says, and tips himself sideways to roll off Shizuo and into the soft of the sheets alongside the other. “I won’t require your services again for at _least_ an hour.”

“A whole hour?” Shizuo drawls as he pushes to sit up from the bed and lifts a hand to drag through his hair. “You’re losing your stamina.”

“We can’t all have monstrous sexual appetites,” Izaya says, mostly to get Shizuo to give him an amused look over his shoulder. Izaya grins in response and lifts his foot from the bed to kick at the other’s hip. “Go and at least attempt to clean yourself.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Shizuo says, fitting words to actions as he slides off the edge of the bed and gets to his feet. Izaya pillows his head on his arm, settling himself into comfort as he watches Shizuo stretch and admires the flex of muscle in the other’s back and shoulders; he doesn’t even bother looking away when Shizuo glances back and catches him staring. There’s a flash of white teeth, a huff of a breath. “Enjoying the view?”

“Not in the least,” Izaya tells him. “Bring me my phone before you get into the shower.”

Shizuo laughs and waves a hand in acknowledgment. “Yeah, yeah.” He steps around the edge of the bed to make for the door still open in their wake and out to the living room where Izaya dropped his phone early in Shizuo’s attempted and very successful seduction, and Izaya rolls over onto his back to gaze hazily up at the ceiling and let comfort carry him drifting through the span of minutes before Shizuo returns.

He can hear the other coming before he comes back through the door; Shizuo’s footsteps carry a weight Izaya thinks he would be able to recognize anywhere, even were there any other options in the privacy of their own home. The thought makes him smile, the expression distant with satisfaction; but then “Izaya?” Shizuo calls, and there’s some strain on his voice, a measure of uncertainty enough to lift Izaya’s head from the bed as the other steps into the room. “You have a lot of missed calls.”

“I was just looking at them,” Izaya says, pushing up onto his elbow to gesture for the phone. “I can’t have missed _that_ much in fifteen minutes.” He’s underestimating the time, he realizes as he takes the phone and checks the display -- it’s been nearly an hour since he last remembers glancing at the clock -- but more important is the notification, _41 missed calls_ blinking at him from over a full screen of red icons indicating missed connections and pending voicemails. Izaya frowns and sits up the rest of the way to tip in over the screen; Shizuo steps in to sit at the edge of the bed, his mouth curving onto tension to more than match Izaya’s.

“What happened?” he asks, his attention on Izaya’s face instead of the phone display.

Izaya shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he admits; but he’s already tapping the button to call his voicemail, already lifting the phone to his ear. There’s the _beep_ of acknowledgment from the system, a cool automated voice welcoming him to his voicemail: “ _You have twenty-seven unheard messages_ ” it informs him, but he’s already hitting the button to play the recordings back. “ _First unheard message_.”

The voice on the other end of the line is familiar to Izaya, even with the chipper lilt of delight stripped to the cold weight of panic. The message is short, a plea for help that doesn’t offer more than the barest outline of the situation; but it’s enough to run Izaya’s blood cold, to freeze him where he sits with the icy burden of panic in his stomach even before the automated voice reads back the time stamp of nearly sixty minutes ago. The message continues on to announce the next unheard message, to click with the beginning of another recording: that same panic-stricken voice, terror audible and straining on every word. Another click, another time stamp; and then “ _Izaya_ ,” loud enough to suggest this isn’t the first time his name has been given voice, and Izaya jerks to attention as a hand touches his shoulder. Shizuo is staring at him, his forehead creased and his mouth drawing down on a frown; he looks concerned, like there’s something in Izaya’s expression enough to wake his usual protective instincts. Izaya doesn’t know what his face looks like, doesn’t know what his expression is saying; but it’s enough to draw Shizuo’s frown darker, enough to tighten that grip steady at his shoulder. “Izaya, what’s wrong?”

Izaya presses his lips together, working himself deliberately through the effort of a swallow as the message at his ear concludes, as the level tone of the automated voicemail recording announces the start of the next. “Put your clothes on, Shizuo,” he says, as the next message begins to spill Kida Masaomi’s desperate pleas against his ear. “There’s a problem.”

Shizuo doesn’t ask for details; apparently Izaya’s expression is enough to drive the point home all by itself. He just moves, at once, pushing away and to his feet while Izaya pulls his phone away from his ear and turns to go in search of his own clothes, of something sufficient to put on before they go out to deal with the crisis described amidst Masaomi’s frantic explanation. The messages keep playing, the sound of them tinny and faroff from the soft of the blankets; but Izaya doesn’t need to hear the details, doesn’t need further description of the situation.

He doesn’t need to wait for more. They’re already late enough as it is.


	5. Deserve

Izaya hates hospitals.

He didn’t know this fact about himself. He hasn’t spent much time in them personally, even after a youth filled with a more than average number of incidents that would merit a visit; he’s always preferred to bandage himself up at home, or maybe with Shinra’s help, on those rare occasions that require more treatment or for which Shizuo is present to demand more care than an ice pack and a compression bandage. Shizuo spent much of his childhood within these white walls, Izaya knows; he’s heard the stories from family, from Shizuo’s mother and even Kasuka, occasionally, who is never particularly forthcoming but is certainly more open about the topic than his brother ever is. But Shizuo’s been strong enough to shrug off almost any hurt as long as Izaya’s known him, and Izaya has made something of an art out of laughing off the severity of injuries that really ought to have professional treatment; and so the clean walls and sterile bite of the air around him is unfamiliar, now, like visiting a foreign country and feeling the impact of his own presence echoed back by his discomfort with everything around him. It’s not a sensation Izaya is accustomed to, not one he’s at all pleased by; he long since made the city his own, fit himself into the shadows and alleys until he knew them as well as the hallways of his school, as well as the garden around his family’s house. It’s been a long time since he felt so discomfited by his surroundings, since he felt so adrift where he is existing; and left to his own devices, he’d prefer to turn and absent himself from the awkward self-consciousness of the moment as rapidly as he can.

Unfortunately, his current audience is holding him in place as much by who isn’t part of it as by who is.

“This is _ridiculous_ ,” Masaomi says now, not for the first time in the last hour, not even for the first time in the last five minutes. He pivots on his heel where he’s been pacing up and down the hallway with ever-increasing speed, twisting in to glare at the doorway leading to the recovery room where Saki and Shizuo are currently cloistered. “When are they going to let us in to see her? I’m her _boyfriend_ , they can’t just keep me out like this!”

“It would seem they can,” Izaya tells him, with more of a bite on the words than he wholly intended to put there; but it’s a relief to let off some measure of his uncomfortable strain, even via words, and the dig of his tone is enough to drag Masaomi’s attention around to him and stop his anxiety-inducing pacing for a moment, at least. “That is, unless you want to do the manly thing and burst in there to demand your rights to her attention…?”

Izaya isn’t entirely joking. He knows what Shizuo would do in Masaomi’s place, can imagine what _he_ would do; the words are framed as a taunt but there’s more truth under them than his tone implies. The nurses and doctors are hardly likely to cause Masaomi physical harm, even if he tried to brute force his way into the room; but Masaomi’s shoulders slump, his head ducks down, and Izaya can feel the anticipation of excitement drain out of him as clearly as the fight runs out of Masaomi’s tight-wound frame.

“No,” the other says, sounding defeated, as if Izaya’s words are a brick wall instead of the almost-suggestion they were intended as. Masaomi’s head ducks forward, his hair falls into his face; with the weight of his sweater hanging overlarge over his slack hands, he’s the very picture of dejection. “She probably doesn’t want to see me anyway.”

Izaya watches Masaomi for a moment. He looks miserable, too small to fit into his clothes properly, as if they’re representative of the life he tried to make for himself, the excitement and intrigue he has been playing at without understanding its repercussions. His words are almost convincing, almost entirely sincere; if his position weren’t quite so miserable Izaya might even believe him, might take the display Masaomi is putting on as the honest emotion the other would clearly like it to seem. But it’s a little too polished, a little too perfect; and Izaya’s been lying to people for too long to be taken in by what amounts to an elegant play for sympathy, a request for reassurance suitable more for the child Masaomi might have been than the adult he has decided he is.

“I imagine not,” Izaya says, letting his voice ring clear and crisp into the empty echo of the hallway around them. Masaomi’s head turns at once, his eyes going wide with shock at this wholly unexpected reply, and Izaya meets his stare unflinchingly, holding the other’s gaze as he tips back to slouch against the wall. “You weren’t even able to save her, after all. I don’t know why she’d want to see someone who couldn’t even risk his life for the one he supposedly loved.”

“‘Supposedly,’” Masaomi repeats back, his voice soft and faintly breathless on shock; and then, as his forehead creases with hurt, as his lips draw down on a frown as the attack sinks in, “I _do_ love Saki. Don’t talk about what you don’t know.”

“I don’t know about your relationship,” Izaya agrees, capitulating on this point readily but without breaking the fixed eye contact he’s holding with Masaomi. “But I do know what Saki was worried about. Did she tell you she called me?” Masaomi’s lashes flicker, his expression drops into shock for a moment; Izaya lets his grin drag wide, lets the cut of amusement flash over his face even as none of it settles into his eyes.

“She was afraid of you getting bored with her,” Izaya says, levelling the words like the mortal blow they are, with the weight he knows they will land with on Masaomi’s particularly fragile psyche. “She wanted to know how to keep you from leaving, when your life was _so_ exciting and she was so ordinary.”

Masaomi’s teeth set, his breath rushes out of him in a hiss. “ _You_ ,” he growls, and takes a step forward, as if there’s any part of his narrow shoulders and fragile frame that could offer the least intimidation to Izaya himself. “This is _your_ fault.”

“Is it?” Izaya asks. “I didn’t tell her to meddle with the city’s underworld. I didn’t tell her to try to make a deal with the remnants of a defunct gang to keep you safe. All I did was tell her to keep up with _you_. You’re the one who led her here.”

Masaomi’s hands are curling to fists, his shoulders are hunching in to pull his center of mass forward, to tip him in like he intends to span the distance to Izaya through sheer force of will. “Shut _up_.”

“You started a _gang_ ,” Izaya tells Masaomi without looking away, without blinking, without so much as letting the edge of his smile slip from his lips. “You’re the one who pulled her into this, Masaomi-kun. It’s not my fault that your girlfriend happened to run into the dark side of that before you did, any more than it’s my fault she got attacked.” He tips his head back against the wall behind him and lets his breath rush out of him in a gust of an almost-laugh. “In fact you ought to be _thanking_ me. It’s only because of Shizuo that she’s here now. Would you have stood on the sidewalk thinking about what to do until they killed her, or would your _love_ have spurred you into action a little bit before that?”

“ _Shut up_ ” and Masaomi’s moving, lunging in over the distance between them to seize at the front of Izaya’s shirt with both hands, to wrench the other up and towards him even before he has a bracing knee up against the bench alongside the other’s hip. Izaya lets himself be pulled, going slack with the dead weight that will offer the greatest resistance to Masaomi’s attempts, but Masaomi still manages to lift him off the wall by an inch, enough to lend force to the shake he gives as punctuation to his words. “Shut _up_ , you don’t know anything about me, or Saki, or us!”

“You seem to be the one lacking in information,” Izaya tells him, as calmly as he can manage while Masaomi’s teeth are gritted on frustration and his cheeks are flushing with something between anger and upset. “Are you mad at me or are you mad that you didn’t even love her enough to go and save her?”

The slap is startling, a _crack_ of sound and impact that leaves Izaya blinking shock at the corner of the hallway even before he feels the burn of pain against the side of his face. “ _Shut up_.”

Izaya glances sideways at Masaomi without turning his head. “Hit a little close to home?” he suggests. “How serious were you ever about her?” He turns back to face the other, dragging a smile onto his lips in spite of the burn against his cheek. He doesn’t lift a hand to touch against it. “As serious as you were about your little gang, maybe? You shouldn’t play with things like love and violence if you’re not ready to follow through on them.”

Masaomi hisses, his eyes narrowing as the fingers of the grip he still has on Izaya’s shirt tighten, as his free hand curls into the weight of a fist and the promise of a punch to match the ache of that full-strength slap he cracked against the other’s face. “ _You_ \--”

“ _Hey_.” It’s a different voice, lower and steadier than Masaomi’s, even with the weight of emotion to burden the boy’s tone; Izaya huffs a breath, feeling the tension in his shoulders sag out even before the sound of footsteps brings Shizuo in towards the two of them. Masaomi lets his hold go at once, stumbling back and away as he lifts his hands in a gesture of peace; Izaya watches him sidelong, even as Shizuo comes in to stand alongside him and frown from one of them to the other. “Is this really the time to be fighting?”

“What are you talking about, Shizu-chan,” Izaya deadpans. “We weren’t fighting. Masaomi-kun and I were just having a little chat.”

Masaomi huffs an exhale in response to this, sounding very much like he wants to argue the point; but what he says is “Is she awake?” to Shizuo rather than bothering with replying to Izaya.

“Yeah.” Shizuo tips his head in the vague direction of the hospital room. “Asking for you, too. You’d better go in and say hi.”

Masaomi shudders a sigh. “Yeah.” He takes a step forward, moving away from Izaya and towards the door Shizuo indicated; and then he stops dead, his footfalls scuffing to an uncertain halt against the tile. There’s silence for a moment, a breath heavy with the weight of anticipation; and then Masaomi pivots on his heel, turning in to face Shizuo before he tips forward to duck into the deepest bow Izaya has ever seen.

“Thank you,” Masaomi says without straightening from his position. It looks odd on him, with the weight of his sweater hanging off his shoulders and his yellow scarf still knotted at the back of his neck; but the sincerity in his voice adds honesty to the words and grants them a force they might not manage, otherwise. “For your help. For...saving Saki.” The words come slow over his lips; Izaya wonders if they carry a self-deprecating edge from the knowledge of all those minutes Masaomi spent standing just outside the building where Saki was held, dialing Izaya’s number over and over again instead of pushing his way inside himself. “I can’t ever repay you.”

Izaya doesn’t have to look up to see the flush of embarrassed color spread out over Shizuo’s cheeks; he would swear he can piece together the other’s discomfort from the way Shizuo clears his throat, from the hunch of his shoulders as he lifts a hand to push through his hair. He looks up anyway, though, if only because Shizuo blushing is not to be missed, however often and consistently Izaya wins this precise reaction from the other at a whim.

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, his voice gruffer than usual as it sticks over self-consciousness in the back of his throat. “There’s nothing to thank me for. Anyone else would have done the same.” He drops his hand from his hair to gesture towards the hospital door, too caught in the snare of his own embarrassment at being thanked to see the way Masaomi flinches at his last words. “Go see your girl.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, keeping his head ducked down to half-hide his expression until Masaomi finally straightens from his protracted bow and moves to step behind Shizuo and towards the door to the hospital room. Izaya watches him go, watches him pull open the door and offer an uncertain, “Saki?” to the occupant inside; and then the door swings shut, blocking out whatever answer Masaomi receives, and Izaya’s left alone in the hallway with Shizuo once more.

Shizuo only takes a moment to hesitate, just enough to glance back over his shoulder to make sure the door is truly shut in Masaomi’s wake, before he turns back to fix Izaya with the full force of his attention as his mouth turns down on a frown. “What were you saying to him?”

Izaya turns away, tipping his head down so his hair falls in front of his face and hides his expression. “Nothing,” he says, tasting the lie sour and curling on his tongue. “Why would you think I said anything?”

Shizuo huffs an exhale warm on the very start of a laugh. “Because I know you,” he says, and he steps forward to drop heavily against the end of the hospital bench alongside Izaya. There’s not really enough space for him there -- the motion presses him close against Izaya’s shoulder and runs their legs up against each other from knee to hip -- but Izaya doesn’t pull away, even though there’s plenty of space for him to slide sideways by an inch or a foot to make more room for them. “And because he looked about ready to strangle you when I came out into the hallway.”

“That’s right,” Izaya says without lifting his head. Shizuo lifts his arm to drape across Izaya’s shoulders and Izaya leans into the weight of it, letting the force of the other’s hold urge him to tilt sideways and press hard against the side of Shizuo’s chest. “He was attacking me, you saw. Shouldn’t you be planning terrible revenge on him for that or something?”

“He’s had a hard day,” Shizuo soothes. “I think he can be forgiven a little temper.”

“He _slapped_ me.”

“You probably deserved it.” Shizuo’s fingers slide against Izaya’s shoulder, trailing idle friction against the sleeve before he curls his hand in against Izaya’s arm and pulls to urge them closer together. “What were you saying to him?”

Izaya doesn’t answer immediately. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor in front of them, working over the sterile, boring patterns laid into the linoleum as the quiet stretches to offer a response to Shizuo’s question, of sorts, if not the one the other is looking for. Finally he takes a breath and turns his head in against Shizuo’s shoulder so his words come out half-muffled by the other’s dark vest. “He doesn’t really want to live this life, you know.”

Shizuo’s hand tightens on Izaya’s arm. “I know.”

“She was willing to.” Izaya shuts his eyes and breathes in, filling his chest with the strain of air while he collects clarity on his tongue and frames the words he wants to say to coherency enough to make an offer of them. “He doesn’t love her like she loves him.”

Shizuo huffs a exhale, something that takes the shape of rejection without quite conforming to the reality of it. “Because he wasn’t willing to die for her?”

“Yes.” Izaya turns his head in against Shizuo’s chest and reaches out to catch his arm hard around the other’s waist. “ _I_ wouldn’t want anything less than that.”

“I’d rather neither of us died for the other,” Shizuo says, but his hold on Izaya’s shoulders isn’t loosening. It’s a comfort to feel the brace of that locking him in place. “Lots of people are perfectly happy never risking their lives for the safety of their loved ones.”

They both go silent for a moment. Izaya still has his face pressing close against Shizuo’s vest; he can taste cigarettes on his tongue, can catch the bitter of the other’s sometimes-habit in his throat with every inhale. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lift his head any more than he eases his hold; and Shizuo stays where he is too, holding onto Izaya’s shoulder like he intends to keep the other where he is by pure strength. Finally Shizuo takes a breath, so deliberate and deep that Izaya can hear the rush of the air in his lungs, can feel the shift of the other’s chest against the press of his forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” Shizuo says, soft but clear, his voice carrying the words to Izaya’s hearing even though Izaya doubts someone standing even in the doorway of Saki’s hospital room could hear him. “You know that, right?”

Izaya presses his lips together and swallows with deliberate force. “Of course,” he says, as lightheartedly as he can manage while his face is pressing hard into Shizuo’s vestfront. “Why would it be my fault, I’m not the one who broke her legs. I’m not an idiot, Shizu-chan.”

“I know,” Shizuo says. There’s quiet for a moment, another breath of time to serve as punctuation; and then Shizuo takes a breath, and lifts his other hand to brush against Izaya’s cheek, ghosting his fingers against the red print left by Masaomi’s frustrated slap. “Is your face okay?”

“Of course it is,” Izaya says without lifting his head. “I’ve had worse, senpai.”

“I know you have,” Shizuo says; but it’s not quite calm on his voice, and he doesn’t lift his hand away from sliding gently over Izaya’s skin, as if he intends to press away the imprint of Masaomi’s hand with the care of his own touch. Izaya lets him continue uninterrupted for a moment; and then he turns his head, tipping in to lie against Shizuo’s shoulder instead of pressing against it so he can make an offering of the line of his face for the other’s touch. Shizuo doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment on Izaya’s movement or dismissive words either one; but he doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t lift his hand away from the other’s cheek, even long after the swelling has faded out of sight and feeling both.

Izaya isn’t sure he deserves the comfort, but then, he’s pretty sure no one could ever be worthy of Shizuo in the first place.


	6. Interference

Things are quieter, after that.

It’s not as if Izaya stops his work. It’s his livelihood, after all, he’s been working as an informant since before he graduated high school; and someone has to pay for rent, and food, and all the endless numbers of expenses that come with the fact of living day-to-day. But the Yellow Scarves go silent, as still as if they’d been disbanded entirely; and when Izaya’s curiosity teases him he opens up a different browser tab, and investigates a different forum, and doesn’t ask about the gang of middle schoolers.

Not that that means he’s completely uninformed. Masaomi texts Shizuo, sometimes, sending a flurry of messages every week or so before going entirely silent again; and Shizuo always mentions it, as if Izaya couldn’t guess from the abrupt upswing in the number of notifications going off on the other’s phone. “Kida’s taking entrance exams,” or “Saki’s going to repeat her last year,” or “The doctors say she’ll be out of the hospital by the end of the month”; trivial things, random updates more suited to friendship than anything Izaya can sell or trade in with any of the buyers who ask for updates on the status of the city and the movement of the factions within it. But Izaya never tells Shizuo to stop, even if he never asks directly for the other’s offhand information; and Shizuo keeps giving it to him, and Izaya can feel the strain in his shoulders ease a little more with every detail.

He’s nearly recaptured his calm, by the time winter is easing into the warmth of spring and the stark grey of bare tree branches are starting to flicker with the suggestion of buds, with the beginning of springtime ready to break over the city. Izaya doesn’t care much about the change of the seasons -- it’s not as if it makes a difference in his personal life, besides some measure of discomfort in the heat of summer or the chill of winter -- but it’s nice to come home with some measure of mobility still in the tips of his fingers, even if it strips him of the easiest excuse he has to huddle in against Shizuo’s constant radiant heat when they’re on their way back from meetings or in the drowsy pre-dawn hours of the morning. It’s not as if he needs an excuse anyway; Shizuo never offers anything but a hum of satisfaction and the weight of his arm around Izaya’s shoulders, and often that comes wholly unprompted by weather or Izaya either one. This morning Shizuo was the one who stirred first, shifting on the other side of the bed with enough motion to rouse Izaya from the shallow dreams he was wandering in before he rolled over to span the space between them and throw out an arm to drop around Izaya’s waist and draw the other back in against his chest. Izaya let himself be pulled without any kind of complaint, even if the movement brought him fully awake; he was unlikely to slide back into unconsciousness anyway, and the comfort of Shizuo’s breathing spilling warm against the back of his neck is satisfying enough to more than make up for an extra span of missed rest. He stays like that for almost a half hour, letting the minutes slide by with nothing more to fill them than the slow pace of Shizuo’s breathing against his hair and the rhythm of his heart beating slow and steady in his chest; and then he finally lifts his arm from the soft of the blankets, and reaches out to collect his phone carefully enough to not dislodge Shizuo from whatever dream the other is currently wound in.

It’s easy to lose himself in updates. There are a few dozen emails to skim through, a handful important enough to merit an immediate response, and several forums to check to catch up on the latest news that came in over the hours of the night. There’s nothing critical lurking in the shadows, no crisis brewing in Ikebukuro’s underground; but Izaya reads through them anyway, collecting tidbits of information to offer back to interested parties or to collate into a cohesive whole in his own head upon receiving some key detail at a later time. It’s only after he’s caught up on his personal messages and reviewed the forums that he finally goes to the chat room to log in and see if anyone else is awake.

Someone is. Izaya’s not wholly surprised; Celty always keeps unusual hours, enough that he’s wondered on more than one occasion if she actually needs sleep at all, and the boy who goes under the pseudonym of Tanaka Taro has all the irregular sleep habits of a teenager trapped by the uncomfortable Circadian rhythm of his growing body. It’s the latter who’s logged in at the moment, his username illuminated with the glow that indicates he’s online just underneath Izaya’s own  _Kanra_. Izaya tabs into the chat window, offering a casual greeting without bothering with the unnecessary secrecy of a private message.

_Good morning. It’s early yet for you, isn’t it?_

Tanaka Taro answers right away; Izaya suspects he may have had his chat field open already to offer a greeting of his own.  _Morning. Yes, I’m going to be leaving for school in just a bit here._

_Good to catch you while you’re still around. You’re coming up on graduation soon, right? How did your entrance exams go?_

_Really well, actually! I found out yesterday I was accepted at my first choice, so I guess I’ll be moving to Tokyo soon._

Izaya’s eyebrows raise but he responds without hesitation.  _Congratulations. Where are you going?_

 _The same place my best friend is going, Raira Academy in Ikebukuro._ There’s a pause while the chat screen flashes the ellipsis to indicate more text is forthcoming; Izaya lets it blink uninterrupted.  _It’ll be great to see him again._

 _That’s great news_ , Izaya types back, a little more slowly than usual but not so much that it should be noticeable to the other.  _Congrats to you both. Raira’s a pretty good school, you know._

_That’s right, you live around there, don’t you? Do you know anyone who went there?_

_A couple people,_  Izaya types back.  _You should ask Setton, I think most of their friends are graduates. A little weird, but more or less good people._

 _That’s great_. There’s a pause, a moment of silence marked again by that ellipsis; it lingers for far longer this time, blinking in the middle of the screen while Izaya gazes at it and waits for the follow-up.  _Maybe we can all meet up sometime_.

There’s a grumble of sound from over Izaya’s shoulder, the noise of Shizuo struggling towards consciousness. The arm draped over Izaya’s waist tightens for a moment as Shizuo stirs enough to pull the two of them closer, as he ducks his head to nuzzle in against the back of Izaya’s neck. “Izaya?” Izaya can feel Shizuo lift his head to peer over his shoulder. “Are you awake?”

“Do I seem like I’m asleep?” Izaya asks. That gets him a huff from Shizuo, as it was meant to, and a tightening of the arm around his waist, which wasn’t necessarily intended but is a nice consequence all the same.

“How long have you been up?” Shizuo asks the line of his shoulder. “You should have woken me.”

“I tried,” Izaya says. “Unfortunately for me you sleep like a rock that is very determined to not let go of me.”

“That’s because you’d go off and get into trouble alone if I let you,” Shizuo says without sounding particularly concerned about this reckless abuse of his strength. “Who’s Tanaka Taro?”

“My new boyfriend,” Izaya says as his screen flickers with a new message:  _Not that we have to if you don’t want to. It would just be nice to have some friends in the city_. “Don’t worry, though, he’ll just be a side flirtation. I’ll end up refusing to run away with him in the end and break his heart.”

“Thanks, that’s reassuring,” Shizuo says, but he sounds distracted, like he’s not really paying attention to Izaya’s weak attempt at teasing. “That’s not Celty’s username. Is this the kid who started the Dollars?”

“Your powers of retention are incredible,” Izaya tells him. He presses his thumbs to the screen to type back:  _Of course, it’d be great to meet up. We should do a whole gathering of the Dollars and see who shows_. “Have you ever considered a career working as an informant?”

“I’m kind of tied up in my current profession,” Shizuo tells him. “My employer’s likely to walk straight into a gang’s hideout unarmed if I weren’t there to hold him back.”

“That was one time,” Izaya tells him.  _I can put you in touch with some of my friends here too, just to help you get settled._ “And I was fine.”

“Because I was there with you,” Shizuo tells him. There’s a pause; then: “This kid’s in middle school still, isn’t he?”

“Not for very long,” Izaya says. “He’ll graduate this spring.”  _Let me know if you want some connections._  “And he’ll be starting at Raira.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo sighs against his hair. “You said you wouldn’t meddle again.”

“I’m not meddling,” Izaya says. “He’s already started a gang. He’s going to find trouble all on his own whether I push him into it or not.”

“So let him find it himself.”

Izaya tips his head to glance sideways up at Shizuo. “Like I did? I almost got myself killed several times. I thought you would have remembered, senpai.”

“No one’s as much trouble as you,” Shizuo says, and takes advantage of Izaya’s turned head to lean in and kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Let them find their own adventures.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Izaya says.  _Oh no, my boyfriend doesn’t want me to introduce you to my friends. I think he might be jealous ;)_

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans. “ _Izaya_.”

Izaya grins and goes on typing.  _I’ll have him meet you first thing. Good luck with your move!_ “There,” he says, and turns back to smile over his shoulder at Shizuo. “Satisfied now?”

Shizuo sighs. “I think you’re more trouble now than you were in middle school.”

“Of course,” Izaya says, reaching out to set his phone down on the bedside table without waiting for the farewell message he’s sure Tanaka Taro is typing. “I have to give you a reason to stick around.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh at him. “As if I don’t already have a great one.”

“Oh?” Izaya asks. Shizuo loosens his hold when Izaya pushes to turn over to face the other, though his arm stays where it is; just draped over Izaya’s back, now, rather than pressing warm against his stomach. Izaya lifts both hands up to touch against Shizuo’s face, to cradle the familiar lines of it against the curve of his palms and the set of his fingers as he smiles up at the other. “What might that be?”

Shizuo doesn’t answer aloud, but the duck of his head and the weight of his mouth against Izaya’s is more than enough reply, especially when Izaya already knows the answer.


	7. Responsible

“This is a  _terrible_  idea,” Shizuo sighs from where he’s trailing down the sidewalk just in Izaya’s wake. “You said you weren’t going to cause problems for them.”

“I’m not causing problems,” Izaya tells him, tipping his head to glance back over his shoulder without entirely turning around. “I just want to say hi to our newest kouhai. There’s nothing sinister about that, is there?”

“There is when you’re you and they’re them,” Shizuo says, taking a somewhat longer step so he’s walking just against Izaya’s shoulder, as if he wants to be close enough to stage a physical intervention if needed. “They’re already in over their head, you know.”

“And that’s why they need us,” Izaya says with the most perfect logic. “They’ll get themselves in even worse trouble if we don’t step in to show them the path to follow.”

Shizuo snorts. “The path  _you_  followed?”

“Certainly not,” Izaya says. “They’re young, still. They don’t need to have contacts in the Awakusu yet.” He lets that linger for a moment before he goes on. “I can take care of that for them, if they need anything.”

Shizuo groans from over Izaya’s shoulder. “That’s not the point,” he sighs. “You should be keeping them  _away_  from danger. They don’t know what they’re dealing with here.”

“No,” Izaya agrees. “But they’ll find out. Wouldn’t it better to have someone on their side to ease their way instead of leaving them to fend for themselves?”

“Not if you ease their way right into trouble,” Shizuo protests. “If they don’t have anyone to push them they might not get into this at all.”

Izaya shakes his head. “You’re underestimating them,” he says. “They started  _gangs_ , the both of them, completely independently of each other and free of any influence from yours truly. They’re going to find excitement for themselves no matter what we do, senpai.”

“I still don’t think you should be encouraging them,” Shizuo grumbles. “They don’t need  _help_  finding trouble for themselves, at least.”

Izaya lifts a hand to wave aside this complaint. “I’m just saying hi,” he says, and looks back over his shoulder to flash a grin at Shizuo behind him. “Don’t worry, Shizu-chan, I’ll be a perfect saint.”

“That’s a more alarming idea than anything else,” Shizuo says. “You haven’t been innocent since you started middle school.”

Izaya turns entirely, tipping his head into a smile at Shizuo as he continues to move backwards down the sidewalk in front of the other. “Aww, senpai, you sure do know how to sweet-talk a boy.”

Shizuo snorts. “You are such a brat,” he says, not without affection; and then his gaze slides up over Izaya’s shoulder, his expression shifts into attention on their surroundings. Izaya can all but see the oncoming collision in Shizuo’s eyes; he’s already slowing his stride when the other reaches out to catch his hand at the sleeve of Izaya’s jacket and pull him to a halt. “Careful.”

Izaya tips his head to look back over his shoulder without tugging free of Shizuo’s hold on him. There’s a girl just behind him, tall and thin and with a sheet of dark hair long enough to emphasize both those traits; she’s in the middle of the sidewalk, standing dead center in the path in front of the high school gates, but she’s not looking back at them, not showing the least sign of noticing the near-miss she just had with Izaya. Her head is lifted towards the school, her eyes are wide and as bright as the smile playing at her lips; with her hands folded in front of her she looks serene, peaceful, like she’s entirely happy with the idea of spending the rest of her life standing right here smiling at the front of the school. It ought to be a pleasant expression on her face; she certainly looks happy enough, under the circumstances. But there’s something strange in her eyes, something in the set of her jaw that is enough to make Shizuo and Izaya glance at each other and to pull a frown and a headshake from Shizuo as they make eye contact. Izaya raises an eyebrow, and lets his mouth quirk on a grin, and then he’s turning back to the girl and lifting his hand in a wave even as Shizuo hisses and makes a grab for his sleeve to hold him back.

“Sorry about that,” Izaya calls, pitching his voice bright and loud so it will certainly break through any excuse at distraction the girl might have. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“That’s fine,” the girl says. Her words are direct, her reply wholly reasonable; but she doesn’t turn to look at Izaya at all, doesn’t so much as shift her weight to glance at the person who nearly ran into her. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow. “I’m glad you’re so calm.” He offers the words with an edge to them, a bite of sarcasm that could pass for teasing but certainly not for sincerity; but the girl still doesn’t turn. She barely flickers a glance his way before she looks back to her fixed point of attention with such focus as to wholly dismiss Izaya from her awareness.

“Of course I am,” she says, still in that strange tone, as if there’s no emotion in her but beatific contentment. “I could never be anything but perfectly happy while waiting for my Takashi.”

Izaya lifts his head, nodding slow as the beginning of understanding starts to form itself in his mind. “I see,” he says, careful this time to put no sarcasm at all on the words. “Your boyfriend?”

The girl laughs without turning her head. “Takashi is  _so_  much more than a boyfriend to me.” She takes a breath and sighs it out with the full weight of contentment on the sound. “Takashi is  _everything_.”

“I’m sure he is,” Izaya says. He glances at the front of the school; there’s no sign of anyone approaching as yet, either to meet this girl or as the leading edge of the flood of students Izaya himself is waiting for. “Did he get accepted here?” He turns his attention back to the girl and rocks his weight back on his heels like he’s getting comfortable. “Are you split up at different high schools?”

“Oh no,” the girl says, her voice calm in this as in everything else. “I used to go here too. And Takashi’s not a student, of course.”

“Used to?” Izaya asks. He considers the girl’s outfit, the dark lines of a school uniform on her shoulders and the weight of a heavy skirt around her hips. “Did you transfer? What happen--”

“ _Haruna_.” It’s a different voice than the girl’s, sharp and hissing over the name; and from the edge of the school gate a figure appears, stepping out from around the corner with a speed that registers as far more suspicious than a more sedate pace would. Izaya draws back a step, moving away from the girl and towards the everpresent protection of Shizuo behind him as a harried man with his hair ruffled around his face darts forward to seize the girl’s arm and drag her to the side of the school gates. “What are you  _doing_  here?”

“ _Takashi_ ,” the girl says, her voice going soft and dark with affection even as she is manhandled out of the main line of sight from the school. “I knew you would come to meet me.”

“I’m not here to  _meet you_ ,” the man says, leaning in close and hissing the words directly into the girl’s blissful smile. “I’m here to tell you to  _go home_. You shouldn’t be hanging around here. Isn’t it enough that you got expelled, do you want to get me fired too?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the girl says, and lifts her hand to stroke against the man’s cheek as if she’s urging the weight of his hair back behind his ear. The man flinches, cringing away from her fingers as if they’re the edge of a blade, but he can’t get out of range of her touch without letting his grip on her arm go. “It’s all worth it as long as we can be together, Takashi. If you get fired we could leave town and run away together.” She blinks and smiles bright, answering the man’s set scowl and panic-wide eyes with as much contentment as if he’s kissing her instead of hovering on the verge of shoving her bodily away from him. “We could get  _married_.”

“ _What_ ,” the man says. “What’s wrong with you, I’m not going to--” and then his head turns, his attention swinging around as if he’s only just processed the presence of Shizuo and Izaya standing at the other edge of the school entrance. It’s interesting to watch the hard lines of anger in his expression drain away along with all the color in his skin; Izaya’s never seen someone go from irritation to horror quite as quickly as the man before them does.

Izaya flashes a smile, the most sincere one he has to offer, as he steps forward and into the open space before the school gate. “Hello,” he says, lilting the words into unavoidable politeness as he waves his hand in the couple’s direction; the man actually flinches back as if Izaya’s brandishing a weapon instead of just the relaxed angle of his fingers. “Sorry to interrupt! I’m looking for someone, maybe one of you two know him?”

“Sorry, I can’t help you,” the man says, scowling hard enough to dissuade anyone other than Izaya himself.

Izaya hums in the back of his throat and tips his head to the side to blink deliberately wide eyes at the man. “You haven’t even heard who I’m looking for,” he says. “You’re a teacher here, aren’t you?” The man’s jaw goes slack; color he didn’t have to lose drains from his face. He looks like he might be about to collapse right where he stands. Izaya flashes his teeth into something that might pass for a smile and slides his hands into his pockets as he rocks back over his heels. “I don’t care what you two are getting up to but you could at least be polite enough to hear me out. Or do you just not pay attention to the boys?”

“Shut  _up_ ,” the man hisses, snapping the words like they’re a blow to ward off the edge of Izaya’s statement, but he doesn’t wait to see if they hit home or not, apparently too caught in his own panic to bother with seeing if there’s any actual threat. He looks back to the girl instead, baring his teeth to hiss frustration at her blank smile as he tightens his hold on her wrist and drags her away from the wall and down the sidewalk with him. “Come  _here_ , let’s get some privacy.”

“Do,” Izaya calls after them. “Wouldn’t want anyone who knows you to see you getting friendly with  _Haruna-chan_ , would you, Nasujima-sensei?” The man’s head jerks, like he’s being drawn by the impulse to look back in horror at Izaya’s words; but he keeps moving instead, and Izaya is left to grin after him as he and the girl disappear around the corner of the school.

“We should go after them.” Shizuo’s voice is low and closer than Izaya realized; when he looks up Shizuo is right next to him, having stepped forward to close the gap between them and leave their shoulders all but touching. Izaya wonders if it was Shizuo’s approach that contributed so much to Nasujima’s horror, or if it was just the sense of being caught in whatever private titillation the teacher’s been indulging in. “He shouldn’t be doing that with a student.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow and his shoulder as he glances back where the other two have vanished. “And you’re going to stop him by breaking his face?” he asks. “He’ll just hit on the nurses in the hospital and be back at work as soon as he’s released.”

Shizuo huffs an exhale. “ _Still_. He shouldn’t be getting away with that.”

“She’s not his student anymore,” Izaya tells him. “It looks like she got transferred to another school, probably after they got into more trouble together than he could talk his way out of. But she’s still coming here after him.” He turns around to face Shizuo and lifts a hand to touch against the center of the other’s chest, pressing just hard enough to urge Shizuo’s attention down to his face instead of after the other two. “I think she’ll ruin his life enough left all on her own. Isn’t it more poetic justice that way anyway?”

“I don’t care about how poetic it is,” Shizuo tells Izaya without looking away from his face. “He should be--”

“ _You_.”

It’s a different voice: not Shizuo’s, not the girl, not even the teacher. But it’s familiar all the same, one Izaya has heard in person a handful of times and over a long string of electronic voicemails, and he knows who he’s going to see even before he starts turning. He only makes it halfway around before an impact slams into him with the weight of an elbow driving hard into his stomach to send him stumbling backwards and against the support of Shizuo behind him. Shizuo catches Izaya’s shoulders, hissing frustration at their sudden attacker; but Izaya just blinks hard, and brings his vision into focus on the dark glare and set jaw of the boy seething in front of him.

“Masaomi-kun,” he says, purring over the words while still trusting his balance to Shizuo’s hold. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“What are you  _doing_  here,” Masaomi growls with so much force on the words that they’re stripped of all pretense of inquiry as fast as they leave his lips. “Get out, I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“I know,” Izaya says. “Unfortunately for you I wasn’t coming here to look for you.”

“Masaomi?” Yet another voice, a little higher and presently strained on concern. Izaya holds Masaomi’s furious gaze for a moment, letting the implication of his words sink into the other’s thoughts; and then he lifts his head and lifts his gaze to the breathless boy jogging up towards the gate where the three of them are. He’s perfectly ordinary looking: dark hair, a soft face, wide eyes that make him look so overwhelmed that Izaya doesn’t need to know where he’s come from to see the marks of a new visitor to the city in his expression. He’s wearing the blue Raira uniform coat properly, with a tie knotted at his collar and his shirt buttoned all the way up, and however much strength Masaomi may have trained into himself his friend is far less athletic, judging from how hard he’s breathing as he draws level with the front of the gate. “You just took off with no warning at all.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Izaya says, pitching his voice loud so it’ll cut over whatever Masaomi might be intending to offer in response. “I’m afraid that would be my fault. Masaomi-kun and I are acquaintances and we haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Thank goodness,” Masaomi growls, and reaches to take the other boy’s wrist. “Come on, Mikado, don’t bother with this guy.”

“I’m just saying hello,” Izaya says, getting his feet under him so he can straighten from Shizuo’s hold. Shizuo lets him go but keeps one hand touching against Izaya’s shoulder, like he’s planning to pull the other back bodily if he tries something particularly startling; the thought makes Izaya smile to himself as he extends his hand towards the newcomer. “Orihara Izaya.”

The boy ducks his head into a nod, smiling shyly as he reaches out to take Izaya’s offered hand. “I’m Ryuugamine Mikado. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Absolutely,” Izaya says, shaking Mikado’s hand without looking away to meet the hissing frown that Masaomi is turning on him. “Are you new to the city?”

Mikado blinks, looking startled for a moment; and then breaks into a smile, mostly shy and a little abashed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Oh no,” Izaya says as he reclaims his hand for himself. “I just know most of the major players in the city and hadn’t seen you around with Masaomi before.” He tips his head and flashes a smile at Mikado. “Let me or Shizuo--” with a backwards tilt of his head to indicate his shadow, “--know if there’s anything you need. Or just mention our names if you get in a tight spot. Everyone knows who we are.”

Mikado ducks his head. His smile is spreading a little wider; it’s starting to glow in his eyes, now, instead of clinging politely to his lips. “Thank you very much,” he says, only sounding a little bit breathless. “Orihara Izaya and…”

“Heiwajima Shizuo,” Shizuo says from over Izaya’s shoulder. Izaya tips his head to glance back at the other but Shizuo is looking at Mikado instead of at him, his forehead creased on tension and his voice low on concern. “If you run into any problems anywhere, we can help.”

“Come  _on_ ,” Masaomi says, and reaches out to clutch at Mikado’s hand and pull the other’s attention back to him by force. Mikado turns to look, blinking wide-eyed at his friend, and Masaomi turns to look away down the street and urge the other with him. “If we hurry we can beat the rush at the ice cream place I was telling you about and flirt with some of the university girls there.”

“Ah,” Mikado says, and breaks into a nervous laugh as he starts to let himself be pulled away. “Right.” He looks back to Izaya and Shizuo and lifts his free hand in a self-conscious wave as Masaomi urges him forward. “It was good to meet you!”

“Same, of course,” Izaya says. “See you around.” And then Masaomi jerks at Mikado’s hand, and Mikado stumbles forward to jog laughing after the other, and Shizuo and Izaya are left standing still in front of their old school as the rest of the students begin to trickle out of the doors in Masaomi’s hurried wake. Izaya watches the other two go for a moment until they round the corner of the next block; and then he turns to head in the other direction, stepping away from Shizuo’s hold but with no question in his mind that the other will follow him. Shizuo does, of course, turning to drop into pace just at Izaya’s elbow, and Izaya doesn’t even have to look over at him when he heaves a sigh of something like relief. “That was interesting.”

“Are you  _sure_  that’s the kid?” Shizuo asks. “He seems completely normal.”

“That’s him,” Izaya confirms. He has the image of Mikado’s school ID on his computer at home, with the other’s childlike features matched to the bits and pieces of data he’s been able to collect on the founder of the Dollars; but more than that he saw the bright behind the other’s eyes, a kind of manic excitement riding high on the thrill of the big city and the sense of adventure that he can still encounter just by living here, at least for now. Izaya tips his head back to look up at the sky overhead. “He’s going to get himself into trouble.”

Shizuo snorts. “Are you going to lead him there?”

Izaya shakes his head. “No,” he says; and there’s something a little like weight on the word, something almost regret or the anticipation of pain against the inside of his chest. “I won’t need to do anything at all.” He reaches out without looking, freeing his hand from the soft catch of his pocket so he can wind his fingers in against Shizuo’s cuff and press his palm flush against the other’s. “He’s going to find it all on his own.”

Shizuo’s breath rushes from him in a huff. “Kida’s going to be  _pissed_.”

Izaya sighs. “I know,” he says. He takes his next step diagonally, letting himself swing sideways so he bumps his shoulder hard against the line of Shizuo’s arm. “If he’s lucky we’ll be able to keep his best friend from getting himself killed after all.”

“Let’s hope,” Shizuo says with enough dryness on the words to make his unjustified skepticism abundantly clear; but he’s tightening his hold on Izaya’s hand and pulling them both faster along the sidewalk, and Izaya’s not about to argue the point. “Think we’ll be lucky enough to get you home without getting caught in five different plots along the way?”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, and tips his head to smile up for Shizuo’s attention. “I’d say it depends on how fast we go. Feel like carrying me?”

Izaya knows what answer he’ll get, even before Shizuo growls into a grin and ducks down to catch his free arm around Izaya’s knees and lift him up as if he weighs no more than a backpack; but it makes him laugh, and it makes Shizuo smile, and really a little distraction is all he needs right now anyway.

They can get back to fretting over their latest crop of kouhais tomorrow.


	8. Blunt

“You’re not giving me enough credit,” Izaya declares as he perches against the back edge of the park bench alongside Shizuo. “I’ve been a perfect saint for  _days_ , now.”

Shizuo snorts skepticism beside him. “You outed that double agent within the Awakusu-kai just yesterday.”

“A friendly favor,” Izaya says. “The Awakusu-kai are our  _allies_ , senpai, I would have thought you would have noticed that by now.”

“You’re messing with the Yellow Scarves.” Shizuo has his hands in his pockets and his head ducked down when Izaya glances back at him; he’s frowning, possibly because of the subject at hand or, more likely, because he can’t find his lighter. “Don’t try to tell me you’re not.”

Izaya smiles unseen at the bowed angle of Shizuo’s head. “I would never lie to you.” That gets him a sharp upward glance and a raised eyebrow, but the expression is coupled with a tug at the corner of Shizuo’s lips, and Izaya flicks a grin at the other before he turns to look back at the splash of the water in the fountain before them. “They’re falling apart where they stand, since our favorite middle schooler graduated and left them to their own devices. I’m just trying to make sure they don’t take out a segment of the city as they collapse.”

“It’s not because he graduated,” Shizuo says; but he’s found his cigarettes, and he’s occupying himself in freeing one from the cardboard box instead of pressing the point. Izaya ducks his head to turn his attention to the curve of his shoes rather than looking at Shizuo and lets the quiet go long enough that he can clear his throat and his thoughts at the same time before lifting his head and changing the subject.

“You’re grasping at straws,” he declares loftily. “What  _real_  evidence do you have that I’ve been stirring up the city?”

“You’re still part of the Dollars,” Shizuo says. He’s bracing a cigarette between two fingers when Izaya glances back at him; the box is returning to his pocket, his hair is falling over his face. “It’s a gang for kids, there’s no reason you should be part of it.”

“There’s no reason I shouldn’t be either,” Izaya informs him. “You and Celty are both members too, don’t forget.”

“I’m only in it because you are and you know it,” Shizuo says. “And Celty’s different.”

Izaya smirks down at the top of Shizuo’s head. “Different because she’s fundamentally more pure than I am?”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “Something like that.”

“This is all circumstantial,” Izaya tells him. “It’s my word against yours on this, you know, and I think I am a better judge of character than you.” He swings his foot wide to nudge against Shizuo’s knee. “Just look who you spent your childhood consorting with.”

“I’d say it’s a bit more than my childhood,” Shizuo says as he brings his cigarette to his lips. “Seeing as I am in fact living with you.”

“I was talking about Shinra.”

“Sure you were.” Shizuo straightens from the hunch he’s been maintaining over his knees and leans back against the support of the park bench behind him as he lifts his head to look up at Izaya. “I have proof against you, anyway.”

Izaya braces his hands against the edge of the bench and tips sideways to cast his shadow over Shizuo as he flashes a smile at the other. “Do you?”

“I do,” Shizuo says; and then he reaches out for Izaya’s waist with one hand, his fingers stretching to span the distance between them. His thumb skims against the top edge of Izaya’s slacks, his fingers slide down to drag against the fabric and press in and down to slide into the give of the other’s back pocket. Shizuo keeps holding Izaya’s gaze, his focus fixed on the other’s face as his fingers catch around the smooth weight of the object within to slide it up and free in a single elegant motion. Shizuo lifts it up, offering the lighter between the both of them without ever looking away from Izaya’s eyes. “You stole my lighter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Izaya tells him. “That’s  _my_  lighter. It just happens to look exactly like yours.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo says, sounding patently unconvinced as he brings the lighter around to flick it open and catch the flame against the end of his cigarette. “I thought you were supposed to be a good liar.”

“You just know me too well,” Izaya tells him. Shizuo snaps the lighter shut and offers it back for Izaya’s hold; Izaya stays right where he is without so much as shifting a hand at the back of the bench, holding his position until Shizuo glances up at him and he can let the corner of his mouth curl up onto a smirk. “You going to put that back where you found it?”

“Not in public,” Shizuo answers back at once.

Izaya grins and reaches to take the lighter as offered. “Something to look forward to tonight, then,” he says, as if Shizuo’s refusal was as good as an invitation. He rocks forward against the edge of the bench as he fits the lighter back into his pocket, pushing his coat back over his hip as he does so to leave Shizuo a clear line of sight. Shizuo doesn’t quite turn his head to track the motion, but Izaya’s watching the dip of his lashes and the slide of his eyes, and the weight of the other’s attention at his fingertips has him grinning well before he draws his hand back out of his pocket with somewhat more of a flourish than the action really requires. “Enjoying the view?”

Shizuo’s mouth tightens on a smile even around the burden of his cigarette. “Tease,” he says, not without affection.

“I’m not,” Izaya says. “I’m absolutely serious about my offers, I thought you knew that by now.”

Shizuo reaches to draw his cigarette back from his lips and exhale a breath of smoke into the air. “You’ve been saying that for years.”

“It’s been a long-standing option,” Izaya agrees. He lifts his hand to touch his fingertips to Shizuo’s hair and feather his touch down against the strands. “I keep telling you, we could get away with  _anything_  if you were only willing to try.”

Shizuo tips his head up, turning into Izaya’s touch so he catches the print of the other’s fingertips against his nose instead of the tangle of his hair; when he lifts his chin his breath spills warm over Izaya’s wrist. “I don’t particularly want to share you with the world.”

“Mm,” Izaya purrs, and draws his touch down to bump Shizuo’s mouth before he pulls his hand back in to angle his arm across his knee as he smiles down at the other. “Jealous, Shizu-chan?”

“Yep,” Shizuo says with no heat at all, and lifts his cigarette back to his lips for another inhale. “Almost as much as my boyfriend is.”

Izaya laughs at that and lets his teasing fall into the quiet of companionable silence for a moment while he looks back out over the park. The fountain is splashing water down into the basin built around it; there are a handful of very small children splashing in it, and a few older teenagers perching at the edge and sometimes tossing coins in to glint in the springtime sun before adding their own splash to the play of the water. Izaya watches them idly, trying to identify the different school uniforms in evidence and determine if a given couple are flirting, or dating, or just friends based on how close they’re sitting, and the pitch of their laughter, and the angle of their knees; and then there’s motion in his periphery, a huff of breathing coming hard at his elbow, and he’s just turning to look when someone rounds the corner and runs hard into his shoulder and the edge of the bench at once.

“Woah!” Izaya gets a hand up to grab at the stranger’s arm, as much to steady himself as to catch their balance; he gets a handful of fabric, the soft of a delicate sleeve, and then he’s steadying himself enough to blink into focus on the face in front of him. It’s a girl, her head ducked down and her breathing coming hard like she’s been sprinting; and then she lifts her head to gaze up at Izaya, and Izaya’s eyebrows jump at the surprise of her appearance.

It’s not that she’s bad-looking. She has a beautiful face, all things considered; wavy hair, and bright eyes, and a mouth that would be soft if she weren’t pantingly out of breath at the moment. Her features are foreign, to be sure, from the red tint to her hair to the wide green of her eyes; but in the middle of the city it’s hardly uncommon to run into tourists, or visitors, or those like Simon or his blonde waitress who have committed to making a home for themselves in the foreign country around them. What draws Izaya’s attention isn’t the girl’s hair, or her eyes, or even the breathless anxiety of her breathing; it’s the pattern curving around her neck, the raw red of a barely-healed injury printing the texture of a scar between the mismatched pale of her neck and her head atop it.

“Hello,” Izaya says, and then lifts his gaze to meet those wide green eyes. “That’s a very interesting scar you’ve got there.”

The girl’s face goes absolutely bloodless. For a moment she just stares at Izaya, her fingers tightening where she’s clutched at his arm until Izaya can feel the pain of a bruise starting; and then she shoves him away, pushing so hard Izaya does lose his balance and falls back, only catching himself by throwing out a hand to grab at Shizuo’s shoulder. The girl pivots hard on her heel, ducking her head as she does, and then she’s off, running away across the park as if Izaya’s words have given renewed strength to her flight. Izaya and Shizuo both stare after her for a moment, the oddity of the situation enough to knock them both speechless for a span of time; and then Shizuo lifts his head, and Izaya ducks his to meet the creased-forehead confusion of the other’s gaze.

“Well,” Izaya says, letting the words fall with deceptive lightness over his tongue. “That was different.”

“No kidding,” Shizuo says. Izaya pushes against the other’s shoulder to right himself and return to his perch at the back edge of the bench; Shizuo looks away again, gazing back out across the park where the girl has just vanished. “I wonder what she--”

“ _Move_ ,” comes a voice, the rough grate of impatience on the word carrying clearly even across the distance it’s coming from. Izaya turns at once to track it, the effect of surprise still enough to leave him jumpy at this new interruption, and so he’s looking when the boy comes shoving through a cluster of middle school girls at the edge of the park, turning sideways to more rapidly force his way past them. He’s older than the girls if younger than Izaya himself; he’s dressed like a high schooler, at any rate, although he’s had the good fortune to come into the breadth of his shoulders young. His hair is light, his face nondescript; were it not for the determined set to his jaw and the fanatic focus in his eyes, Izaya doesn’t think he’d notice the other in a crowd. He’s speeding up as he makes it free of the girls, dropping into a jog as he cuts his way across the park along the same path the scarred girl just followed; he’s just starting to accelerate past the bench when Shizuo reaches out, and grabs at his arm, and brings him jerking to a stop as immediately as if he’d run into a brick wall.

Shizuo lifts his free hand to his mouth and draws his cigarette free to brace between his fingers. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, in that deceptively casual tone he always picks up when he’s trying to restrain his temper. Izaya raises an eyebrow but Shizuo isn’t looking at him; he’s lifting his head instead to look up from under the fall of his hair at the boy he’s just snagged from the path. “You in some kind of a rush?”

“Let me go,” the boy says with more composure than Izaya has ever seen from anyone who has just suffered a direct application of Shizuo’s strength. His whole arm is flexed; Izaya can see the force of the effort trembling in the boy’s shoulder as he drags at Shizuo’s hold on him. “I have to catch up with my girlfriend.”

Izaya clears his throat; loudly, so he’ll pull the boy’s attention up to him. The other’s gaze lifts slowly, grudging every inch; Izaya is waiting with a smile by the time it finally lands on him. “Your girlfriend?” he asks, hitting the most irritatingly chipper tone he can manage. “This the one with the pretty eyes and scar all around her neck?”

“Yes,” the boy says, grating the words past his teeth. He still hasn’t stopped pulling at Shizuo’s hold. “She came right this way.”

“Yeah,” Izaya agrees, and braces his hands against the bench again so he can make a show of leaning back against the support of it. “See, the thing is, she didn’t seem particularly like she wanted you to catch up with her.”

The boy hisses an exhale past his teeth. “We had a disagreement,” he says, biting off the words like they’re being drawn from him. “That’s why I need to talk to her. Let me go.”

“She was  _running_.” That’s Shizuo again, growling over the words with enough resonance to pull the boy’s attention back to him. The cigarette in his fingers gives way, crushed under the force of Shizuo’s rising tide of anger. “You shouldn’t have to chase her down if all you wanted was to talk to her.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” the boy says with enough dismissal on his tone that Izaya is impressed in spite of himself. “We’re in love.” He rocks his weight back over his heels, like he’s relying on Shizuo’s grip on his arm for a moment; the tension in his shoulder eases a little, enough that Izaya wonders if he’s resigning himself to the situation after all. “I’d do anything for her.” His hand shifts, the motion of it half-hidden by the angle of his body and the fall of his coat; there’s something clutched in his fingers, some detail Izaya can’t make out against the tension of the other’s hand. “That’s why you have to let me go” and his hand swings around, his whole body arcing in around the fixed point of Shizuo’s hold on him to grant the motion of his hand more strength. Izaya blinks, wondering if this strange boy is going to be utterly mad enough to try to punch Heiwajima Shizuo, if he’s really going to land the weight of his knuckles against Shizuo’s jaw or nose; and then the sunlight glints off something in his grip, the sheen of cheap plastic catches the light, and Izaya gasps a half-voiced warning too late for Shizuo to do anything before the ballpoint pen in the boy’s grip tears right through the sleeve of Shizuo’s shirt to stab at least an inch into the tendons of his forearm.

They’re all very still for a moment. It must make a strange picture, some part of Izaya’s brain notes: the boy leaning back against Shizuo’s casual hold on his arm, Izaya rocking forward with his hand thrown out over the distance between them as if to stop the motion before it’s done; Shizuo sitting with perfect calm, his head tipped down as he blinks at the pen he’s just been stabbed with. They’re all silent, an unmoving freeze frame of absurd violence; and then Izaya takes a breath, and says, “I’m going to kill you,” and reaches for the pocket of his coat where the familiar weight of his knife is pressing against his hip, and everything jumps back into motion at once. Shizuo shouts, something wordless and incoherent that still carries all the weight of a  _no_  on it; Izaya rocks forward, bracing himself at the back of the bench while he draws his knife free of his pocket and snaps it out to lock into place; and the boy jerks back, yanking his arm free of Shizuo’s hold as Shizuo lets his grip go to turn and grab around Izaya’s waist instead. Izaya hisses incoherent frustration, aware without even trying that he’s not going to break free of the seemingly casual hold against him; but the boy is turning at once, not even sparing a glance for the threat of Izaya’s bared knife before he’s breaking into a run to follow the path the girl cut around the splash of the fountain. Izaya glares after him, anger and revenge both seething hot in his veins as the other disappears from view; and then Shizuo heaves a sigh, and loosens his hold, and Izaya’s attention is pulled down to where the other is lifting his arm to consider the injury seeping blood to stain the edges of his torn shirt around the circumference of the pen.

“That actually hurt,” he says, sounding a little bit surprised and mostly curious. “I didn’t think it would.”

Izaya gazes at the red staining Shizuo’s shirt, at the end of the pen still stuck in the other’s arm; and then he shuts his eyes, and sighs, and when he opens them again he’s looking at Shizuo’s face instead of the proof of his injury.

“Of course it hurts,” he says, and reaches out to brace himself at Shizuo’s shoulder so he can slide off the back of the bench and sit against the seat instead. “Just because you have the healing capacity of a werewolf doesn’t mean you don’t feel the pain.”

Shizuo’s mouth quirks up on a smile. “Are werewolves known for their healing abilities?”

Izaya shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and looks down to turn his attention to Shizuo’s arm and the sluggish stain spreading into the fabric around the injury. “Do I look like a scholar of monsters to you?” He eyes the shirtsleeve torn past mending and the bloodstain leeching into the white of the cloth and makes a face. “That shirt is ruined.”

“I figured,” Shizuo says with audible calm. “I have others.”

“I know,” Izaya says, and reaches up to catch the top edge of the sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. “I just wanted you to know before I did this.” And he brings his open knife up to catch the razor edge of the tip against the white fabric and tear straight down to split the sleeve open down the middle in one smooth motion. Shizuo huffs a breath, his shoulders tensing against the sudden action, but Izaya is already past his arm and down towards the elbow, and the shift in the fabric doesn’t slow his motion. He cuts the cloth all the way down to the edge of the pen serving as a makeshift weapon, slicing the fabric apart through the crimson stain lining the edges of the tear before drawing the blade back so he can resume on the other side and cut the remaining fabric down to Shizuo’s wrist. Shizuo doesn’t flinch this time; he holds his arm up instead, offering the flat of his forearm for Izaya to work around as the shirt comes open to the pull of the other’s knife.

“You could have warned me,” Shizuo says conversationally as his sleeve falls loose around his arm and Izaya turns his attention back up to the shoulder so can cut the fabric free of the rest of it. “Before you started waving that knife around right against my skin.”

“I could have,” Izaya agrees without giving in to any particular tone of guilt. “You should trust me anyway.”

“I don’t think  _anyone_  should trust you when you have that knife on you,” Shizuo says, but the words run closer to laughter than to real judgment, and his shirtsleeve is coming loose in Izaya’s hands. Shizuo lifts his arm free, bringing it around to angle across his leg instead, and Izaya turns his attention to the fabric before him so he can slice it apart lengthwise down the middle to extend it into a longer, narrow strip of cloth. The knife goes away after that, folded one-handed and slipped back into his pocket, and by the time Izaya is folding the fabric in over on itself Shizuo is tipping forward over his knee and reaching to brace his grip against the end of the pen in his arm.

“This is going to bleed pretty badly,” he says conversationally as he settles his fingers into place.

“I’ll try not to faint,” Izaya says with as much of a wry twist to his words as he can manage. It does what it’s supposed to, which is draw a huff of a laugh from Shizuo; and then Shizuo tightens his grip, and Izaya reaches out, and Shizuo jerks the pen free as part of the same motion of Izaya catching the makeshift bandage around the wound. There’s a rush of blood, color staining the fabric as quickly as Izaya presses it into place; but Izaya was expecting that and is already wrapping the cloth around itself, binding it tight over the spill of blood as he draws it close against Shizuo’s arm. By the third layer the red is slow to seep through, caught by the first few layers of bandage; by the time Izaya is winding the last few inches around and knotting them into place there’s no sign of blood at all, just the white strip of fabric held tight around Shizuo’s forearm. Izaya ties off the loose ends, wrapping them around themselves before he tucks them back under the top and bottom edge of the bandage, and then he finally looks back up to Shizuo before him.

“Professionally done,” Shizuo tells him, his mouth quirking up at the corner. “Where’d a boy like you get experience like that?”

“I fell in with a bad crowd in my youth,” Izaya says. He lets his hands fall from Shizuo’s arm; Shizuo reaches out as quickly to catch Izaya’s fingers in his. There’s no hesitation in his hold, not so much as a flicker in his strength even with the bound-up injury; the pressure of his grip eases some tension in Izaya’s chest, loosens some knot to deepen his breathing, to calm the beat of his heart. “They were a terrible influence on me.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh without looking up from Izaya’s hand in his. “I know exactly what you mean.” They’re both silent for a moment, just sitting next to each other on the bench with Shizuo still holding the pen and the remains of his cigarette between them; and then Shizuo takes a breath, and it’s Izaya who speaks into the quiet.

“Let’s get you back before you bleed through that,” he says, adopting the closest thing to a professional tone he can manage. “Unless you’d like to see if your strength extends to fighting off an infection as well?”

Shizuo laughs. “No,” he says, and pushes to his feet without letting Izaya’s hand go. “That’s fine.” Izaya follows in unfolding from the bench; Shizuo reaches past him to pick up the remnants of his cigarette and crush them in his free hand alongside the pen. “Let’s go home.”

It’s a walk of several minutes from the boundary of the park to the front gate of their apartment complex, but Shizuo’s grip on Izaya’s fingers doesn’t so much as waver for the whole distance of it.


	9. Distracted

“It’s lucky for us the bleeding stopped so quick,” Izaya says in his best offhand tone as he sticks down the edges of the bandage he’s fitting over the antiseptic coating the puncture wound in Shizuo’s arm. “Otherwise the couch would have even more stains than it already does.”

“And whose fault is that?” Shizuo says. The words are gentle; they have to be, to fit around the smile curving at his lips. “I seem to recall you being the most insistent about staying out here instead of going back to the bedroom for most of the causes of those.”

“Yours,” Izaya says easily. He catches Shizuo’s arm in his, bracing the other still as he presses his palm down flush atop the bandage stuck down over the sign of the injury done by the aggressive boy in the park; he’s pushing hard, but Shizuo doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as show a flicker in the softness of the smile he’s turning on Izaya. “For being irresistible, obviously.”

Shizuo’s smile pulls wider, wide enough to crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “Is that so?”

“It is,” Izaya says without hesitation. “Trust me, I’m an expert.”

“You know I do,” Shizuo says. He lifts his free arm from his side to reach out and touch just against the fall of Izaya’s shirt so he weights it against the other’s waist. “I mean, I  _shouldn’t_ , but I’ve thrown in with you too much to back out now.”

“What a mistake,” Izaya says, with as much sincerity on his tone as he can manage to put there. Shizuo smiles down at his touch against Izaya’s waist but doesn’t look up to see the way the other is looking at him. “This is why you’re getting stabbed with pens in public parks, you know, senpai. You should really be concerned with taking better care of yourself.”

“It’s not so bad,” Shizuo says, and draws his arm free of Izaya’s hold so he can lift his fingers up and wiggle them to demonstrate. “I can’t even feel it anymore.”

“That’s because I took such good care of you,” Izaya informs him. “You ought to be careful, you don’t want to reopen the wound.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh as he lets his hand fall to the couch next to him. “Or what, I might bleed out?”

“Sure,” Izaya says. “You never know. Better safe than sorry, right?” He lifts his hand to push Shizuo’s hair back out of his face before letting his fingers slide down and curl against the back of the other’s neck. “You’re only human, after all.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows raise as he tips his head up to look at Izaya. “I think that’s the first time you’ve actually admitted to that.”

“Mm,” Izaya says. “Maybe seeing you get stabbed with a pen was enough to awaken my protective instincts.”

Shizuo snorts. “I seem to recall having worse.” Izaya slides his arm in around Shizuo’s neck and braces himself against the other’s shoulder to steady his balance as he slides up to kneel at the edge of the couch and straddle Shizuo’s lap; Shizuo doesn’t so much as hesitate in tightening his hold at Izaya’s hip to offer an extra fixed point as Izaya comes down to settle atop him. It’s only once Izaya’s leaning back to sit against Shizuo’s thighs that Shizuo tips his head back up to look up at the other over him, his eyes dark and mouth soft on sincerity. “I remember you having a  _lot_  worse.”

“That hasn’t happened in years,” Izaya chides. “Not since I got myself a bodyguard.”

Shizuo’s hand slides away from his hip and around to brace against the dip of his spine. “That doesn’t mean it never happened.”

Izaya brings his hand up to push into Shizuo’s hair and curl support at the back of the other’s head. “Do you really want to talk about this?” he asks. “I was planning on seducing you to distract us from the trauma of this afternoon, but if you’d prefer to be pessimistic…”

“Oh no,” Shizuo says at once. His fingers shift at Izaya’s spine, sliding over the other’s back like he’s appreciating the familiar shape of Izaya’s body under his touch. “By all means, distract away.”

“Are you sure?” Izaya asks, and lets his knees slide a little wider against the couch, until he can feel the strain of it up the whole inside line of his thighs. Shizuo’s hand tenses at his back, Shizuo’s arm flexes to brace him in place, and Izaya rocks his weight forward, drawing the roll of his hips long and deliberate to grind himself in against Shizuo with intentional fluidity. “If you’re not feeling up for it you only need to say so.” He lets his hand fall from bracing himself at the back of the couch so he can reach to touch against the inside of Shizuo’s arm and skim his fingers over the texture of the bandage he just pressed into place. “You  _are_  injured, after all.”

“A scratch,” Shizuo says, and lifts his arm from under Izaya’s teasing touch to settle his fingers against the other’s hip instead. “I’ve forgotten about it already.”

“I don’t know,” Izaya demurs, casting his lashes heavy over his eyes as he affects a pout of concern down at Shizuo before him. “I don’t want to delay your healing process. Maybe we should wait until we’re sure you’re back at a hundred percent.”

Shizuo groans. “I’m  _fine_ ,” he says; and then, as he lifts his head to glance up at Izaya over him and flash the edge of his teeth in a smile: “Here, let me show you” and his hands tighten, his arms flex, and they’re moving at once, Izaya’s weight toppling him sideways as Shizuo pushes up and sideways to overturn them onto the couch. Izaya clutches at Shizuo’s hair, clinging tight to the support of the other’s shoulders to keep them close as they go down in a controlled fall, but Shizuo doesn’t try to pull away, just lets Izaya’s grip guide him down to land atop the other’s body against the soft of the couch cushions beneath them. The joint impact of his weight landing on the cushions and Shizuo toppling on top of him knocks the air out of Izaya’s lungs in a burst of an exhale; he’s left blinking to clear his vision and waiting for his breathing to return to him as Shizuo lets his hold go so he can brace a hand against the couch alongside Izaya’s chest and lift himself to smile down at the other.

“There,” he says. “Satisfied now?”

“Of course not,” Izaya says, the words coming quick even as his breathing lags a beat behind. “You’ve only just thrown me down like a beast, senpai, that’s hardly a feat for you.”

“I see,” Shizuo says, still smiling all across his face. “Should I attempt further persuasion, then?”

“Maybe,” Izaya says, and lifts his leg from where it’s dangling over the edge of the couch so he can hook his knee around Shizuo’s hip instead. “It’s definitely worth a try, anyway.” Shizuo’s smile flashes to a grin for a moment, coupling the expression with a gust of a warm laugh; and then Izaya pulls against Shizuo’s hair, and Shizuo capitulates at once to lean in and down to claim the part of Izaya’s lips. Izaya shuts his eyes as fast as Shizuo’s mouth lands on his, giving up the distraction of vision for greater focus on the heat at his lips, on the soft strands of Shizuo’s hair under his fingers; and Shizuo pays him back for it with attention, as he lingers in the kiss instead of drawing away at once. His free hand comes up from Izaya’s hip to reach for dark hair instead, Izaya can feel Shizuo’s touch slide in against the back of his neck and up to brace his head gently in place; Izaya parts his lips in answer to offer the heat of his mouth for Shizuo’s having. Shizuo tastes against his lips, his tongue, the ticklish inside of his mouth, and Izaya lets him, breathing in the smell of Shizuo’s skin and tasting the faint bite of brief nicotine clinging to the other’s lips as he lets himself arch up to meet Shizuo over him, to wind his leg in over the other’s hip and urge the heat of Shizuo’s body down against his own. Shizuo gives in to that as readily as he did to the offer of Izaya’s open mouth, his weight tipping forward and down, and when his hips press flush against Izaya’s Izaya can feel the heat of Shizuo’s arousal weighting at the inside of his thigh, can feel the pressure of it catch and grind against the ache of his own fast-rising desire.

Neither of them pull back. Shizuo seems wholly focused on the slow exploration he’s making of Izaya’s mouth, the heat he’s spilling over the other’s lips; if it weren’t for the rhythmic shift of his hips Izaya might think he hadn’t noticed their mutual want at all. But he is moving, is rocking down to meet and match every upward tip of Izaya’s hips with a slow press of his body close against the other’s, and Izaya’s breathing is coming faster and his skin is going hot and he wants Shizuo closer, nearer, pinning him down to stillness and drawing the familiar ache of want up and out of him at one and the same time, until he almost whimpers when Shizuo pulls away from his mouth to pant for breath enough to speak.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, his voice rough and dark in his throat even before he ducks back in to kiss at the corner of Izaya’s mouth like he can’t stand to leave a gap between them, as if he can’t bear the space even with the heat of Izaya’s lips still flushing his mouth to red. “Do you want me to go get the lube?”

Izaya shakes his head. “No,” he says, an easy way to sum up the temptation in Shizuo’s words and his own unwillingness to sacrifice the heat of closeness for the complexities of fumbling into a greater intimacy. He tightens his leg around Shizuo’s hip, more to keep the other where he is than in an attempt to pull him impossibly nearer, and when he lets his hand slide back and out of Shizuo’s hair it’s only to fit down into the barely-there gap between them, where the weight of his own pants is catching against the seam of Shizuo’s. It’s easy to work the fastenings open one-handed, with Shizuo’s clothes as familiar as his own by long months of practice with exactly this, and Shizuo doesn’t move to draw back or interrupt Izaya’s movement with attempted assistance of his own. He just ducks in, breathing warm against Izaya’s jawline and pressing kisses against the dark of his hair, and if it causes some small delay in Izaya’s dexterity he thinks neither of them are likely to be much bothered by the gap of time. It’s only a few seconds all told in any case; and then Izaya is pushing suggestion at the waistband of Shizuo’s slacks, and reaching to urge his own clothes a few inches down on his hips, and by the time Shizuo is bracing himself up so he can reach down and free the heat of his cock from his clothes Izaya already has his fingers around himself, is already dragging slow, savouring friction up against the ache of desire thrumming in his veins.

“I can do it,” Izaya suggests, as Shizuo works himself free and ducks his head to look down between them so he can fit their hips together. He lets himself go, giving over the satisfaction of gentle friction in exchange for bumping his knuckles gently against the bandage on Shizuo’s arm. “You  _are_  injured.”

Shizuo snorts. “It’s nothing,” he says; and then he lifts his hand to catch his fingers against Izaya’s wrist and push the other’s arm up and away over his head as he leans in closer. His eyes are very dark in the shadow of his hair; they look endless this close up, with the rich color of them shaded over into almost the same black as the soft of his lashes. Izaya watches those lashes dip, watches Shizuo’s gaze skip down to the part of his lips, where his breathing is coming ragged over the edge of want in him; and he knows what comes next, can feel his own lashes dipping with the weight of anticipation even as Shizuo takes a breath to speak.

“Just keep your hands here” as he tightens his fingers on Izaya’s wrist to punctuate, to mark out the  _here_  he’s referring to. “I’ll show you I’m fine.” And then he lets his grip go so he can press his fingers to Izaya’s cheek, can slide his hand to brace against Izaya’s hair as he ducks in for another slow, deliberate kiss. Izaya shuts his eyes to the pressure, letting the heat of Shizuo’s mouth on his sweep aside the ache of impatience building against his spine and the thud of heat in his chest alongside his heartbeat. Shizuo’s fingers are steady against his head, the other’s grip utterly unflinching, without any sign of flinching from pain or weakness either one; it makes Izaya’s blood run hotter, makes his cock twitch with instinctive heat down against his stomach where he’s freed it from his clothes. Shizuo smiles against his mouth, Izaya can feel the tension in the other’s lips fitting against his own; and then he lets his bracing hold ease, and reaches down to catch his fingers in and around them both, to pull them flush against each other for a moment of radiant pressure before he steadies his grip and starts to stroke.

Izaya loves this. There’s something satisfying to having Shizuo inside him, fingers or cock or tongue alike; he likes the pressure of it, likes the way the friction pulls against delicate nerve endings to urge him to that deep-down, toe-curling heat. And he likes the feel of Shizuo’s mouth, too, the wet heat of lips and the barely-there friction of teeth and the curl of his tongue dragging up to explore the shape and heat of Izaya beneath him. But there’s a pleasure to this, too, to having the full weight of Shizuo’s body pinning him down to helplessness, and Shizuo’s mouth holding back any sound that might wind its way up his throat, and the steel-crushing strength of Shizuo’s grip made gentle and certain as he pulls up over them both, as Izaya feels every flush of arousal in Shizuo’s cock pressing as close against him as if it’s his own. It tightens his throat, and curls his fingers on the empty air where Shizuo set them, and brings his hips tilting up to chase down the careful rhythm of Shizuo’s grip stroking over them both. Shizuo doesn’t speed up -- he never speeds up -- but Izaya can’t help bucking into it, can’t help himself from rocking up to grind in closer against the unflagging resistance of Shizuo’s fingers stroking over him and Shizuo’s cock running heartbeat-hot alongside his own. It makes him feel pinned down, like he’s being held captive to wait for some vast, patient, inevitable conclusion; and he can feel the promise of it against his spine, can feel it rising in the tremor in his thighs and the quiver of his wrists and the weight of his lashes. He’s gasping for air, panting for it from under the weight of Shizuo’s mouth at his; and he can feel Shizuo’s breathing coming harder too, can feel it in the wet starting to slick Shizuo’s grip as their joint anticipation mingles and blurs against the other’s skin.

Izaya comes first. Izaya always comes first, when they do this; it’s an inevitability, impossible to fight back even if he cared to make the attempt. He can feel it coming, growing on the horizon of his awareness like the glow of light before daybreak; and then Shizuo’s grip slides up and over the head of Izaya’s cock, and Izaya’s hips jerk, and he moans something hot and helpless and muffled to incoherence against the inside of Shizuo’s mouth at his. His foot bracing at Shizuo’s back slides, his cock spills wet over his stomach and Shizuo’s fingers alike, and Izaya feels all the strength in him give way in sync with each pulse of pleasure that radiates through him, as if Shizuo’s grip pinning him in place is stripping tension from him in exchange for each long thrum of satisfaction down his spine. He’s shuddering with the heat of it, his whole body quivering in answer to the pull of Shizuo’s fingers over him; and he gives in to it, gives himself over to the rush of pleasure through him without any attempt at all to push back against it. It’s enough to let it sweep over him, to let the friction pull him down into hazy appreciation while Shizuo’s grip urges the last tremors of pleasure from him in time with the rasp of the other’s breathing catching on the edge of his own impending release. Izaya lets himself go slack to the force, lets his whole body telegraph the force of his pleasure to Shizuo leaning over him, and by the time he’s collecting his attention back in to himself Shizuo is breathing hard against him, his lips parted on the force of his breathing and his eyes dark and fixed on Izaya’s face. Izaya blinks up at him, letting the heat of his own satisfaction glow clear in every line of his expression, and then he lifts his hand from over his head and down to catch at Shizuo’s fingers and urge the other’s hold away from Izaya’s own length. Shizuo follows Izaya’s lead, letting his grip go without even ducking his head to look down at what the other is doing; and then Izaya has his fingers catching in against Shizuo’s, his hold winding to match Shizuo’s on himself, and when he pulls up it’s his pace that Shizuo follows, his rhythm that guides the motion of Shizuo’s fingers tangled in his own. Shizuo doesn’t look down, doesn’t hesitate; he just stares at Izaya, his eyes heavy-lidded with appreciation, with arousal, with all the force of the affection that has only deepened and steadied in all their years together. Izaya gazes back at him, feeling his pleasure-sped heartrate easing, catching now on an echo of Shizuo’s rising desire instead of his own, and when he speaks it’s Shizuo’s name on his lips and Shizuo’s desire warm against his fingers.

“Senpai,” Izaya says, low, to make the title an endearment in his throat; and Shizuo’s lashes flutter, Shizuo’s hips buck forward. Izaya watches the pleasure of it ripple over Shizuo’s face, watches all the tells for  _almost_  clear in that expression more familiar to him even than his own; and then he lifts his other hand, and reaches up to slide his fingers into Shizuo’s hair, to pull the other back in and down against him.

“Shizuo,” he says; and then he lifts his chin, and presses his mouth close to Shizuo’s just as Shizuo’s shoulders tense, just as his fingers seize to involuntary strength around himself. His cock in Izaya’s hold jerks, his breathing spills a thrum of sound to Izaya’s mouth; and Izaya shuts his eyes, and smooths his rhythm, and keeps stroking to urge Shizuo forward and through his orgasm, to bring the heat of the other’s pleasure spilling hot across his stomach to mingle with his own. Shizuo stays where he is, curving in close over Izaya beneath him while the other pulls the full length of pleasure from him into shuddering stillness; and finally Shizuo pulls away, just by an inch, and Izaya lets his motion still as he opens his eyes to look up at Shizuo over him. They stare at each other for a moment, Izaya still with the rush of adrenaline warm in his veins and Shizuo’s gaze still heavy and glazed with pleasure; and then the corner of Shizuo’s mouth catches on tension, and Izaya watches a smile curl itself into the dark of those heat-hazed eyes fixed on him.

“So,” Shizuo says. He loosens his grip on himself, sliding his fingers free of Izaya’s with the full use of his usual dexterity before he reaches up to brace himself against the back of the couch with perhaps a little more flourish to the action than it strictly requires. “Are you convinced yet?”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. “You’ve really only demonstrated an ordinary level of strength.” He lets his hold go, lets his hand drop to rest against the mess they’ve made across his stomach; his other hand he slides back through Shizuo’s hair, smoothing in and down to settle against the back of the other’s neck. “For you that’s quite restrained, all things considered.”

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “Would you prefer I shatter the couch?” he asks.

Izaya flutters his eyelashes and tugs at the back of Shizuo’s neck to urge the other down towards him. “Ooo, Shizu-chan, you know how much I like it when you talk dirty to me.”

Shizuo laughs openly at that. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you love me for it,” Izaya fires back.

“I do,” Shizuo agrees, and ducks in to kiss against Izaya’s mouth. Izaya turns up into it, letting his eyes drift shut to the press of Shizuo’s lips against his; it’s only Shizuo pulling away again that urges him back to himself, and then with a frown of frustration at the loss. Shizuo is looking at him again, his expression very serious, his forehead creased with attention; it’s enough to pull Izaya’s mouth into a frown of suspicion even before Shizuo speaks. “So  _do_  you want me to start destroying the furniture around you, or…?”

Izaya huffs. “Don’t be silly,” he says. “You know I love this couch.” That makes Shizuo’s expression give way to a laugh, and lights up the shadows of his eyes with the warmth of delight, and Izaya pulls him back down for another kiss, longer this time, holding onto Shizuo’s hair to keep them together until he’s willing to let the contact go. Shizuo pulls away more slowly this time, as if his strength is being sapped by the heat of Izaya’s mouth, and when Izaya opens his eyes Shizuo’s are still shut, Shizuo’s expression is still relaxed on the soft heat of satisfaction.

“I love you too,” he says, very softly, so the words all but vanish in the space between his mouth and Shizuo’s; and then he shuts his eyes again, and turns his face back up for more so he doesn’t have to think about the way his cheeks are going warmer than he intended with self-consciousness.

There’s no chance Shizuo doesn’t notice -- he even takes the time to lean in and press his lips against the glow Izaya can feel under his skin -- but he doesn’t say anything, and when he returns to the kissing Izaya’s hold is urging him to Izaya finds himself as easily distracted from his own embarrassment as Shizuo was from his injury.


	10. Simmer

“Why do you always insist on coming here?” Shizuo asks as he reaches over Izaya’s shoulder to catch the weight of the door the other is pulling open and hold it for them both. “You don’t even like sushi all that much.”

“It’s not about the food,” Izaya says, taking the lead into the restaurant without bothering with slowing his steps for Shizuo to catch him up. “It’s tradition. I have very fond memories of this restaurant, you know.” He tips his head to look back over his shoulder and dip his lashes heavy over his gaze. “I’d think you would too.”

“I have a lot of memories of this place,” Shizuo says, looking fundamentally unimpressed by Izaya’s attempt at a sultry smoulder. “Mostly of you getting jealous.”

“I never,” Izaya says loftily, and turns back to stride forward into the shop. “I don’t have any reason to be jealous, my boyfriend is utterly devoted to me.”

“Oh, have you figured that out at last?” Shizuo says without missing a beat. “I was wondering when that’d get through to you. It’s only been  _years_.”

“My goodness,” Izaya says more loudly than he needs to, given the enclosed space. “Is that Dotachin?” He lifts a hand to wave ostentatiously at a table on the far corner of the restaurant; the motion draws the attention of the girl dressed in dark clothes in the midst of the group, enough that she leans in sideways to shove an elbow in hard against the boy sitting next to her. Izaya can see Walker hiss in pain at the impact as he twists around to frown at Erika, but Erika is looking back up already to wave at the two newcomers, and then all three of her companions are looking up too, Walker and Togusa and Kadota with his usual soft hat tugged free of the dark of his hair. Izaya lets his hand fall, exchanging the motion of his wave for the flash of a smile instead, and is rewarded at once with a nod from Kadota and a gesture urging him over.

“Come on, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, and turns back to reach for Shizuo’s hand without giving the other a chance to offer any kind of protest. “Let’s go say hello to our friends.” His dodging of the subject doesn’t go entirely unnoticed -- Shizuo gives him a look coupled with a raised eyebrow that makes his own awareness of what Izaya is doing abundantly clear -- but he doesn’t make any attempt at all to twist his hand free of Izaya’s hold, and in fact shifts his grip to interlace his fingers with Izaya’s as they step forward to join the other four at the low table they’re gathered around.

“What a coincidence,” Izaya says as he steps forward to stand at the edge of the table with Shizuo at his shoulder. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it? What have you been up to?”

“All kinds of things!” Erika declares, her voice as bright as the grin she turns up at Izaya. “There’s a new release of Walker’s favorite novel series that came out just yesterday!”

“I’ve read it three times,” Walker says immediately. “And I have an extra four copies for other uses. Why are you kicking me, Erika?”

“You’re in the way,” Erika says at once, and gives over her unsubtle abuse to reach out and shove bodily at Walker’s shoulder. “Go and sit next to Dotachin.”

Kadota sighs. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why do  _I_  have to move?” Walker asks. “I was here first.”

“Duh,” Erika says, and lifts a hand to gesture generally at Shizuo and Izaya still standing at the end of the table. “You’re not going to ask the boyfriends to sit apart, are you?”

“It might be a safer idea, with you around,” Walker sighs, but he’s moving anyway, either because he’s been persuaded by Erika’s words or, as Izaya thinks is more likely, by the weight of her elbow against his ribs. Izaya thinks about protesting this particular move for the appearance of the thing if nothing else; but Shizuo isn’t letting go of his hand, and he doesn’t care so much about politeness to turn down something so entirely in his own interests.

“Thanks,” he says instead, and takes the seat just vacated by Walker. Shizuo is a little slower to follow, a little more hesitant to take such obvious advantage of Erika’s personal interest in their relationship, but Izaya is turning to Erika without waiting and flashing a smile as he gestures towards the menu at the back of the booth. “Could you pass that to me?”

“Sure!” Erika reaches to grab the slip of laminated paper and hand it back to Izaya; Izaya takes it, keeping his gaze on the menu instead of looking up to meet Erika’s wide-eyed attention. This, of course, has no more effect on her interest than he really expected it to; he’s only just taking the menu when she takes a breath audibly straining on excitement and says “Have you gotten up to anything exciting with Shizu-chan today?”

“Of course,” Izaya says with absolute calm and without lifting his gaze from the menu. “We’ve had sex four times already, he’s absolutely insatiable.” Shizuo makes a strangled noise from alongside him but Izaya doesn’t look up to see whatever look the other is giving him. “Or was it five? It’s so hard to tell when he gets worked up, one orgasm just blurs into the next.”

“Oh my god Erika,” Kadota groans. “They’re my  _friends_. Can you avoid asking about their sex life when I’m about to have lunch?”

“They’re my friends too!” Erika protests. “Besides, Iza-Iza’s just joking.” Izaya lifts his gaze from the menu to glance sideways at Erika; she has her chin braced in her hand and is waving a hand dismissively in his general direction. “He’s never this calm when they get caught kissing, he’s just lying.”

“Astute observation,” Izaya says in that same deadpan tone. “You’re not entirely correct in your conclusion, though.” And then, while Erika is still twisting to stare at he and Shizuo, he sets the menu down and folds his hands over the top of it to fix Kadota with his attention. “We  _did_  have a run-in with some interesting characters downtown, actually.”

“There are always interesting characters downtown,” Kadota tells him with his usual absolute equanimity. Izaya wonders what he would have to say to pull anything like shock from that level expression; it would be easier if Kadota were as gullible as Erika, but too many years of being Izaya’s acquaintance have almost entirely inured him to the best lies Izaya can muster. “You two top among them, usually.”

“Cute,” Izaya tells him. “I’m serious, though.” He lifts a hand to touch his knuckles against Shizuo’s arm, just over the angle of the other’s elbow as Shizuo reaches over him to retrieve the menu Izaya set down. “A kid stabbed Shizuo.”

Every eye at the table shifts to Shizuo. Izaya can feel the other go still next to him, frozen mid-reach by the sudden force of everyone’s attention. There’s a moment of quiet, time enough for Izaya to appreciate the tableau he’s just managed to create; and then:

“Tea,” comes a stranger’s voice, and the spell is broken by the arrival of the usual blonde waitress with a tray full of cups. She hesitates at the end of the table, eyeing Shizuo and Izaya with a focus that verges at the very cusp of irritation before she leans in to start handing out the four cups she brought with her.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Shizuo says, taking advantage of the distraction to defend himself from the focus Izaya just placed on him. “He was just some high school kid.”

“Stabbed him with a  _pen_ ,” Izaya clarifies. “There was blood everywhere.”

“A  _pen_?” Kadota asks. “Who the hell uses a pen as a weapon?”

Walker lifts a hand. “Actually, I was just reading this manga where--”

“ _Not you_ ,” Kadota and Togusa say together in perfect stereo. They spare a glance for each other at this matched reaction before Kadota looks back to frown at Izaya and Shizuo once more. “Was he part of one of those middle school gangs?”

“I don’t think so,” Izaya says. “He seemed like he was working independently. Or, well. Almost independently. He was chasing down this girl.”

Kadota rocks back in his seat and folds his arms. “She wanna be chased?”

Izaya lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Hard to say,” he admits. “She wasn’t hugely forthcoming.” He imitates Kadota’s motion in leaning back against the seat behind him and letting his shoulders drop into the illusion of relaxation. “She did have a really interesting scar, though.” He lifts his hand to draw across his neck, trailing the line of the mismatched skin he saw against the girl’s throat in the moment before panic sent her running again.

Kadota’s eyebrows jump up. “All the way around?”

“As if she were a representative of the Headless Horseman!” Walker suggests.

“Or a shinigami,” Erika cuts in. “You know they’re often drawn with signs of mortal wounds they’ve shrugged off.”

“Maybe those are the injuries they took while they were still human,” Walker puts in, leaning over the table as his eyes brighten. “I mean how would you even hurt a shinigami in the first place? It must be--”

“I wasn’t thinking shinigami,” Izaya cuts in, speaking loudly enough to pull both Walker and Erika’s attention back to him, along with the rest of his audience’s. “I was thinking someone a little closer to home, actually.”

Kadota’s breath huffs out of him, his eyes widening on the realization of what Izaya is implying; but it’s Shizuo who speaks the name they’re all thinking of in unison. “Celty.”

“I thought it’d be worth mentioning,” Izaya says without looking to meet the sideways gaze Shizuo is fixing him with. “Given the circles you move in, it seems like you might be more likely to run into a high school girl than Shizuo-senpai or I.”

Erika nods. “That kind of thing  _would_  blend right in at a cosplay gathering.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Kadota says, in the certain tone that always makes even his casual statements carry the weight of a promise. “And let you know if we see anyone.”

“Thanks so much,” Izaya says with put-upon disregard. “Do be careful if you see a boy with her, too. Or at least make sure he doesn’t have any stationery on him before you approach.”

“I’d like to take him on!” Erika says with audible delight on her tone. “He must have been pretty daring if he stabbed Shizuo.”

“And with a pen!” Walker cuts in. “It takes a lot of force to get those to break skin. You can’t hesitate at all if you’re going to make a weapon of one of them. That’s real dedication, is what that is. How deep did it go?”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” Kadota says with a deliberately distancing tone. “More importantly, Shizuo, are you really okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shizuo says. “Izaya’s making too much of it.” His elbow comes out to bump against Izaya’s side with deliberate care. “Like he always does.”

“I am not,” Izaya says, lifting his head to toss his hair back from his face with haughty self-assurance. “You had a pen at least an inch deep in your arm, the fact that you’re such a monster that you shrugged it off doesn’t change the fact that it was a serious injury.”

“Ohh,” Erika says, and Walker leans in over the table in interest. “Can we see?”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans. “No, you can’t, it’s all wrapped up anyway.”

“It’s not like you’d be able to see anything,” Izaya puts in as the waitress returns with an additional two cups of tea for himself and Shizuo. “Knowing Shizuo he’s all but healed already. If he can shrug off a knife wound I don’t think a run-in with a pen-wielding maniac is likely to give him pause.”

Shizuo groans. “ _Izaya_ ” but Izaya can hear the near-laughter on the sound of his name even before he glances sideways to grin answer to Shizuo’s put-upon exasperation, and Erika and Walker are all but chirping enthusiasm to hear more details while Kadota relaxes back from the sincere concern he was expressing. Izaya reaches out to draw his cup of blisteringly hot tea towards him with the very tips of his fingers so he can blow delicately against the steam rising from the surface, making some show of ignoring Shizuo beside him, and he’s rewarded by the huff of a laugh and the weight of Shizuo’s arm bumping against his own with affectionate force before the other turns to manage his own cup of tea.

Izaya doesn’t bother looking up to see if the waitress is staring at them, doesn’t care if they have an unintended audience. With Shizuo pressing alongside him, he thinks he might be warmer even than the tea radiating heat out against the weight of his fingers.


	11. Tension

“I don’t like this,” Shizuo says as Izaya takes the lead around the corner of the block they’re walking down. “Why do you have to do this in person? Couldn’t you just call or send an email or something?”

“It’s not always a good idea to leave a written record,” Izaya informs him without turning around. They’re moving faster than usual, without any of the detours or delays he might work into their route ordinarily; even this protest Shizuo is offering comes without any slowing in their forward pace along the sidewalk. “And phone calls are too easy to record or to trace, if you’re not careful.”

Izaya would swear he can all but hear the weight of the frown Shizuo gives the back of his shoulders. “Are you really dealing with someone who has that kind of capability?” he asks. “I thought you were done with that.”

“I’m not dealing with them,” Izaya says. “Not yet, anyway. That’s why I don’t have an established line of communication to rely on.”

Shizuo sighs. “Izaya--”

“I’m not planning to make a habit of it,” Izaya says as he makes it to the next turning and rounds the corner without slowing his steps. “Don’t worry, this isn’t an organization I’m particularly interested in playing with. It’s just for this one instance.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, sounding skeptical. “And what  _is_  that, anyway?” He jogs a few steps forward to catch up to Izaya’s shoulder so they’re walking side-by-side instead of in a line; when he lifts his hand to touch at the other’s elbow the contact is glancing more than intent, a point of contact instead of a grab to stop Izaya’s forward motion. “You haven’t told me anything about what’s going on.”

Izaya tips his head to glance at Shizuo’s hand against the sleeve of his jacket but he doesn’t try to pull away; after a moment he lets his steps slow, just barely, enough for Shizuo to steady his hold on Izaya’s arm, but when he speaks he pitches his voice into as much deliberate disinterest as he can manage. “I thought you didn’t want to know the details of my work, senpai.”

“I do when it’s something serious,” Shizuo protests. His hand tightens on Izaya’s arm, his fingers press close against the other’s skin for a moment; Izaya’s steps stall as his gaze comes up to meet Shizuo’s. Shizuo is frowning at him, his forehead creasing and his mouth set; but there’s more warmth behind his eyes than anger, more worry in his expression than the top-layer frustration so clear in his tone. They come to a halt against the sidewalk, Izaya facing forward but looking up at Shizuo and Shizuo turned fully in to face the other, as if he’s trying to make a wall of his shoulders to stand between Izaya and the rest of the world.

“I don’t know what I’m taking you into,” he says, in a tone low enough that it strips the irritation from his words and leaves them soft on the sincerity of concern so clear in the lines of his face. “I don’t want to see you step into a war zone.”

Izaya gazes up at Shizuo for a moment, just looking at him: the bleached-yellow of his hair, and the dark of his eyes, and the soft warmth of his mouth set so tight on that clear concern for Izaya, for Izaya’s safety, for Izaya’s wellbeing. Then he lifts his free hand, the one not held still by Shizuo’s grip, and reaches out to touch his fingers just against the other’s cheek, sliding against the arch of Shizuo’s cheekbone and up to the windswept tangle of his hair. Shizuo blinks, the tension in his expression falling into surprise instead, and Izaya lets his own lips curve on a smile as he urges the curl of Shizuo’s hair behind his ear.

“It’s fine,” he says. Shizuo blinks and his forehead starts to crease on skepticism, but Izaya keeps talking as he winds his fingers into Shizuo’s hair to push it back and away from the other’s face. “I’m only expecting to deal with one person today. She has a lot of manpower acting behind her but she shouldn’t be expecting me so I doubt she’ll have anyone with her today. She doesn’t even know what I look like.”

Shizuo’s mouth catches on an unwilling smile. “Are you really trying to tell me I don’t have anything to worry about?”

“No,” Izaya says, and lets his hand fall to rest against Shizuo’s shoulder instead. “I’m saying  _I_  don’t have anything to worry about, since I have you here with me.”

Shizuo smiles fully at that. “You have an underdeveloped sense of self-preservation in the first place.”

Izaya shrugs. “That may be,” he admits, and lets his hand fall from Shizuo’s shoulder so he can turn back down the street again. “But I’d hate to see you upset. Really, it’s going to be fine.”

“If you say so,” Shizuo says, still sounding deeply unconvinced; but he lets his hold on Izaya’s elbow ease all the same, and when Izaya resumes his forward motion Shizuo falls into step behind him without trying to stop him.

It’s only a few minutes’ walk to where they’re heading in any case. Izaya knows this part of town better than most; not from frequent visits but from nostalgia, from memories revisited often enough to grant the illusion of familiarity to a place he’s only been a handful of times. He thinks he could find his way to the storefront in question blindfolded, if he had to; as it is he doesn’t have to hesitate over his path as he takes the last turning and cuts wide to cross the silent street towards the location in question. Shizuo huffs a breath from behind him and drops into a jog again to catch up with Izaya’s footsteps. “Isn’t this…”

“Look familiar?” Izaya asks, and tips his head to grin back at Shizuo behind him. “Don’t worry, the Awakusu don’t blame you for your career change.” He looks back to the bar they’re approaching, fixing his attention on the door as he reaches out to grab at the handle and pull it open. “Look on the bright side, at least you’re appropriately dressed for once.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo tells him, and reaches over Izaya’s shoulder to hold the door open. Izaya smiles acknowledgment but doesn’t turn around; his attention is on the bar before him and the dim shadows that cling to half-obscure the bare handful of patrons inside. The guard at the door looks him over with the distant formality of inspecting a stranger; and then he looks up to Shizuo behind him, and then back to Izaya at once, his eyes widening with recognition.

“Hey there,” Izaya says, flashing a smile to forestall any too-effusive greeting that might draw attention he doesn’t want just at the moment. “How’s business?”

The man ducks his head into a nod as much of understanding as of greeting. “Slow as ever at this time of the day,” he says. “We only have a handful of customers--” as he jerks his head over his shoulder without turning to look at any of the shadowy figures within. “And none of them are feeling particularly sociable. If you’re looking for entertainment you’d be better off trying a little later this evening.”

“I’m afraid my keeper protests when I have  _too_  much fun,” Izaya says. “I’m looking for something a little more personal, as it happens.” He makes a show of tipping his head to squint over the man’s shoulder before raising his eyebrows in a giveaway for recognition. “And I think I see the perfect woman for it right now.”

“The pretty one by the bar?” the man asks without turning around. “Careful with that one. She’s got the looks but I’ve never seen anyone manage more than a few seconds’ of conversation with her.” His tone is light but his gaze is steady, infusing his words with more weight than they might seem to have. “If you ask me she’s the kind of type to drop poison in a guy’s drink just for saying hi.”

“I’ll just have to keep from imbibing, then,” Izaya says easily. “Come on, Shizuo.” And he steps forward, turning sideways to maneuver past the bouncer and make his way into the shadows of the bar itself without waiting to make sure Shizuo is following him.

There really are very few patrons. It’s early in the day yet; there’s only a pair of men in suits sitting at separate sides of the room and doing a convincing impression of being tipsy office workers that Izaya suspects would fool anyone who didn’t know them both as junior members of the Awakusu-kai. Other than them there’s an older man in the farthest corner from the door, dressed in a grey suit and murmuring into a phone rather than making any motion towards the drink pooling condensation on the table before him, and the woman in question, perched on a barstool at the far end of the counter and with her head ducked forward to fix her full attention on the screen of the phone in front of her. She’s been sipping at her drink, at least -- Izaya sees her reach for it to down a mouthful even as he approaches -- but she doesn’t even blink as she swallows for how much focus she’s giving to the screen of her phone. She’s wearing black heels, dark nylons, a tight skirt and a dark green shirt that clings to her figure while also covering the whole of her skin from throat to wrist; the general impression is that of elegance, and professionalism, and a beauty exactly as polished as it is aggressively unapproachable. Izaya sizes her up in the span of time it takes him to make it halfway across the room; and then he glances back to make sure Shizuo is still behind him before he straightens his shoulders, and smoothes his walk into deliberate grace, and closes the last few feet of distance between himself and the stranger.

“Good afternoon,” he says, putting on his sweetest tone as he reaches to brace himself against the edge of the counter so he can slide onto the barstool next to the woman. “I don’t think--”

“No,” she says, without even looking up from her phone. “Find someone else to bother.”

Izaya stops dead, his hand still on the counter and himself very much not on the barstool. “That’s hardly polite,” he says. “You haven’t even given me a chance to introduce myself.”

“I’m not interested,” the woman says, still without lifting her head to bother making eye contact. “And you’re not either, if your boyfriend is any indication.”

Izaya’s eyebrows jump up. “You’re observant.”

“I’m not blind,” the woman says. There’s hardly even any bite on the words; she just sounds cold, as if she is made from a far harder ice than that clinking against the inside of her glass. “And I didn’t come here to make conversation or friends.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Izaya says; and then he braces his fingers against the edge of the counter, and steadies his footing in the event he needs to dodge backwards rapidly. “I’d hate to keep you from getting your latest update on the activities of your beloved baby brother.”

The woman’s head comes up immediately. The motion is so fast Izaya can feel his shoulders tense, can hear Shizuo hiss a breath as he takes a reflexive step forward, either to interpose between Izaya and the woman or to drag Izaya back bodily, Izaya’s not sure which. But there’s no weapon forthcoming, no motion beyond the sudden, savage speed of the woman’s attention, and after a moment of stillness Izaya takes a breath and lets his shoulders relax.

“No pen, then?” he asks, as lightly as he can manage while facing down a stare more appropriate for a venomous snake than for a well-dressed professional. “Was that all your brother’s idea, then? He’s more inventive than I gave him credit for, I was sure that must have been your suggestion.”

The woman’s shoulders ease fractionally, her chin lifts by a half-inch. “You’re the one Seiji attacked in the park.”

“Almost,” Izaya admits, and tips his head to indicate Shizuo just behind him. “My boyfriend, actually. Lucky for him, too. Shizuo’s revenge would have been a lot more immediate than mine.”

“You want revenge,” the woman says, flatly, a statement and not a question. She sets her phone down against the bar and turns to face Izaya fully, tossing her head to swing the dark weight of her hair back and over her shoulder. “Or payment, or you wouldn’t be here.” She brings her hands to her lap and folds them together over her knees; it’s very nearly a professional appearance, or would be if her gaze weren’t so heavy with insulting dismissal. “Fine. What do you want? I’ll take care of it.”

“Anything for your little brother, is that it?” Izaya suggests. “How lucky for him to have a sister that is so  _devoted_  to him.”

“I am,” the woman says, without so much as batting at eye at Izaya’s implication. “I’d do anything for Seiji, of course.”

“Of course,” Izaya repeats back, purring the words to smoothness in his throat. “I bet you do a lot of cleaning up after your brother.”

“As much as he needs.”

“Naturally,” Izaya says. “Boys will be boys, after all.” He tips his head to look over the counter, pursing his lips to make some show of considering the drink options. “Who  _hasn’t_  committed manslaughter at least once or twice before they graduate?”

Izaya isn’t looking directly at the woman; he has his head turned away, has his focus ostensibly fixed elsewhere. But Shizuo is -- Izaya can almost feel the chill of Shizuo’s scowl icing over the air around him -- and it’s Shizuo Izaya is paying attention to. Shizuo is the one who tenses, his whole body flexing in anticipation of violence; and it’s Shizuo’s hiss of an inhale that draws Izaya’s hand from his pocket, that snaps Izaya’s wrist out sideways to flick open the blade of the knife braced at his hip even before he tips his head to look at the woman. She’s leaning forward on her barstool, her hands curled into fists and her shoulders tipped so far forward she’s in some danger of falling; there’s the strength of intention lining the arm she has braced at the counter and a grimace of fury tight across those beautiful features. There’s no sign of a weapon in her clenched fists, no indication that she’s about to pull a blunt weight or a sharp edge from her pocket, but it doesn’t make a difference; for a moment Izaya thinks she may have been willing to strangle him with her bare hands. He wonders if she might still try, if he didn’t have the knife open at his hip and angled out into the space between them.

“Touchy,” he says; but softly, this time, so his voice doesn’t carry beyond just the two of them. “You don’t need to be so jumpy. We both know your baby brother’s hardly the murderer he thinks he is.”

The woman’s jaw tenses, her chin lifts; the darkness in her eyes lightens, chased away by the barely-there widening of her gaze as she stares at Izaya. For a moment Izaya is expecting her to speak, is waiting for the question he knows she has to spill from her lips; but she presses her mouth closed tight, and lowers her chin, and fixes him with a glare that speaks loud to her intention to remain silent.

“Good choice,” Izaya says. “You have more self-restraint than your brother, if nothing else.” The woman’s head tips down, her eyes spark open fire, but she doesn’t move as Izaya draws his knife back in towards himself and shuts the blade one-handed so he can fit it back into his pocket.

“It’s not actually Seiji I wanted to talk to you about in any case,” he says. “I wanted to advise you about those you chose to help with your little experiment.” Izaya turns entirely sideways to face the bar and tips in to lean his elbows against the counter with ostentatious unconcern; it makes the woman’s jaw tighten, but Shizuo is still standing just over his shoulder, and in an even match Izaya would lay odds on Shizuo’s speed winning out over anyone else’s. “You might want to look into other contacts the next time you need to do some emergency surgery.”

The woman huffs an exhale hard through her nose. “Indeed,” she grates. “Those with tighter lips, it would seem.”

“The doctor didn’t tell me anything,” Izaya says without looking at her. “It’s in his interests to keep this as little-known as he possibly can. He’s working with other motivators than just whatever money or threats you might have offered to him.” The woman’s forehead creases, a giveaway for a flicker of concern Izaya can just see in his periphery; he continues to look forward with as much feigned disinterest as he can manage. “You’re used to dealing with humans. You’re probably very good at it.” Izaya tips his head to look sideways at the woman. “Do you really want to start playing with the monsters in the world?”

The woman meets his gaze squarely. There’s not so much as a flicker in her gaze, this time, no indication that his words have struck home. “I already know about the headless rider,” she says, her voice verging on scoffing dismissal as she looks at him. “You’re not going to frighten me off with that.”

“It wasn’t her I was talking about,” Izaya says. He braces a hand at the edge of the counter so he can push himself upright as he straightens to face the woman. “Just some friendly advice. If you want to keep your brother away from the shadows in the city, you’d best be careful you don’t become one of them yourself.” He lifts his hand in a flourish of a wave and turns as part of the same point, deliberately turning his back on the woman while she’s yet glaring at him. “Come on, Shizuo, we’ve done all we can here.”

It’s a few steps before Shizuo turns to follow Izaya to the door; Izaya suspects there was some matter of matched stares in his wake, coupled with Shizuo’s own unwillingness to turn until he was sure the woman wouldn’t lunge after Izaya in the moment his own attention was distracted. It’s a needless concern -- she’s not the type to dirty her own hands if she can help it, and Izaya hasn’t offered enough of a threat to merit that yet -- but Izaya doesn’t have a chance to tell Shizuo that, and besides there’s something to be said for the psychological impact of Shizuo’s obvious mistrust lingering in his wake. Shizuo’s caught up when Izaya reaches the door and nods to the bouncer on his way out, and they step out into the entryway and back onto the street in almost perfect step with each other.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Shizuo hisses as soon as the door has swung shut behind them. “You’re just as reckless now as you ever were in high school. When are you going to stop daring people to murder you?”

“You misjudge her,” Izaya says, and lifts his hand to gesture to Shizuo next to him. “Give me a cigarette, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo huffs. “You never smoke unless you’re nervous,” he says, but he’s reaching for his pocket to produce one all the same. “She looked like she was thinking about killing you with her glass if you pushed any farther.”

Izaya waves a hand to brush aside this claim. “She would have had to be a lot more desperate,” he says, although he’s not entirely certain about the truth of his words. “I didn’t push her too far in the end, did I?” He spreads his hands out at his sides and pivots as if to offer himself for Shizuo’s inspection. “I’m not bleeding. I’m not even bruised. I’d think this would be a success for you.”

“You didn’t need to say anything at all,” Shizuo grumbles. “We could have stayed safe at home and nothing would be different.”

“That’s not true,” Izaya says, and reaches out to take the cigarette Shizuo is offering to him from the box he’s freed from his pocket. “That was a warning. She needs to know who we are if she’s going to be careful of us, after all.”

“You didn’t even introduce yourself,” Shizuo tells him. Izaya brings the cigarette to his lips and braces it steady so he can free his hands to draw his lighter from his pocket. “How is she supposed to be careful of us if she doesn’t know who we are?”

“She’ll figure it out,” Izaya tells him. “Neither of us blend into a crowd any more than Celty does.” He gets the lighter free and snaps the lid open to start a flame. “Or Shinra, for that matter.”

“That  _was_  about Shinra,” Shizuo says, more a statement than a question. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

Izaya shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, and brings the flame to the end of the cigarette as he pauses to catch it alight. Shizuo stops with him, the both of them hesitating against the sidewalk as Izaya focuses on getting the paper caught so he can snap the lighter shut and return it to his pocket. “Our mutual friend’s escapades will come to light sooner rather than later. You don’t want to keep a secret from Celty, do you?”  
Shizuo frowns. “What does Celty have to do with any of this?”

“You’ll see,” Izaya says, and then he lifts his hand to his lips so he can draw the lit cigarette free and twist it between his fingertips to flip it over and offer the end towards Shizuo next to him. “Trust me, senpai.”

Shizuo’s gaze drops to the cigarette; his lips curve on a startled smile before he huffs an exhale of a laugh. “Brat,” he says, not without affection, and he lifts his hand to draw the cigarette from Izaya’s hold and bring it towards his own lips. “You have a read on all of us, don’t you?”

Izaya lifts his shoulder on a shrug. “On you, at least,” he smiles, and reaches out to wind his fingers into Shizuo’s beltloop and tug to urge the other forward. “Come on, let’s go home and see about getting you to unwind a little bit, shall we?” Shizuo snorts a laugh at that, half-exasperated and mostly amused, but he moves forward at Izaya’s pull all the same, falling into step with the other and reaching out to drop his arm around Izaya’s shoulders as they hit their stride together.

Izaya suspects the arm around him is doing more to ease Shizuo’s nerves than even the familiar calm of the nicotine at his lips, but he’s not about to tell him to stop, least of all when the weight is soothing the adrenaline-tension from his shoulders with every breath he takes.


	12. Support

_Are you ready?_  Izaya types against the screen of his phone.  _We’re almost there and I don’t know how much time we’re going to have for this._

 _We have her with us._  Kadota’s texts are as flat as his voice usually is; Izaya can almost hear the weight of exhaustion just from the shape of the dark characters against his screen.  _Erika and Walker are keeping her occupied right now but she doesn’t seem to be very reassured._

Izaya snorts.  _I don’t know that they’d be comforting to anyone,_  he types back.  _Hold tight for another few minutes_.

“I hope you’re not texting another gang leader,” Shizuo says without looking over his shoulder at Izaya following in his wake. “Isn’t one project to ruffle the city up enough for you?”

“It’s not a gang leader,” Izaya tells him. “Unless you think Dotachin’s crew count.” He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket as he looks up to frown consideration at the darkening sky overhead. “I suppose they do, in a manner of speaking. Maybe they should establish their own color and make it official.”

“Maybe the anime stuff counts as a symbol,” Shizuo suggests. “Besides, aren’t they part of the Dollars with us? Can you be a member of two gangs at once?”

Izaya lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t see why not,” he says. “The Dollars don’t have any rules anyway. There’s certainly nothing against wearing another group’s colors if you want.”

“I don’t think the other group would like the idea of that very much.”

“Well of course you wouldn’t want to  _announce_  it,” Izaya allows. “I said you could be a member of two, not that it was a particularly safe idea.”

Shizuo snorts. “Sounds like the kind of thing that’s right up your alley.”

“Hey now,” Izaya protests. “I’m a devoted member of the Dollars, how could you impugn my loyalty like that?”

“Because you have contacts in all the major groups in Ikebukuro,” Shizuo tells him. “You’re still sharing information across the gang boundaries.”

“All for the good of the city,” Izaya protests. “Besides, I’m an informant. Gathering and sharing information is what I do. It’s up to them to make sure they don’t get caught selling details their group doesn’t want public.”

“And you’ll just abandon them to their fate?” Shizuo asks. “That’s a bit harsh of you.”

“Of course,” Izaya says. “I can’t afford to worry about every source of information I have. It’s hardly good business, I have to sleep  _sometime_.”

“Uh huh,” Shizuo says, sounding skeptical enough that Izaya isn’t surprised at all when he clears his throat to go on talking. “Was saving the leader of the Yellow Scarves from a blackmail attempt just good business too, then?”

Izaya doesn’t miss a step, but it’s a close thing. “Of course,” he says, and clears his throat as he drops into the most casual stance he can as he goes on walking. “Kida owes me a debt, now, that’s got to come in handy eventually.”

“Sure,” Shizuo says, still sounding alarmingly unconvinced. “Because a debt from a high schooler is definitely going to prove helpful to you when you’re working with the yakuza.”

Izaya lifts his chin into the haughtiest angle he can achieve. “You underestimate high schoolers, Shizuo, you of all people should know better.”

“I just don’t know how helpful he’ll be,” Shizuo says. “Seeing as you bailed him out of the gang he was in before it went too far. Wouldn’t it have been better to keep him in charge while still owing you?”

“Sometimes you have to make the most of the situation you’re in,” Izaya tells him. “Besides, it’s not even me he owes the debt to, technically.”

“You know it’s nearly the same thing,” Shizuo sighs. “He tells me all the information you want to get from him just the same.”

Izaya waves his hand. “You’re picking on a single case anyway. I don’t see what relevance this has to everyday life. It’s about getting the best hand to play from, you should understand that.”

“Oh yes,” Shizuo says. “You’re right, of course, you’re a hardened criminal and no one should mess with you.”

“That’s right,” Izaya says. “I have a bodyguard and everything.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Shizuo agrees. “He must be really something.”

“He is.” Izaya glances over his shoulder and lets the corner of his mouth tug up on a smile. “He’s about seven feet and built like a mountain. When he walks down the street people scatter in terror from just a glimpse of him, he’s a real monster.”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans, but he’s laughing as he steps forward and reaches to grab around Izaya’s neck and ruffle a hand into his hair. “Shut  _up_ , you liar.”

“He’s got eyes like flames,” Izaya continues from where Shizuo’s hold is pressing his face close against the other’s vest. “He has to keep them hidden behind sunglasses. The rumor is anyone who has ever seen his true visage has died on the spot screaming in horror.”

“Be quiet,” Shizuo laughs. “Is this what you tell your followers on the internet?”

“No one’s ever heard him speak,” Izaya goes on. “He just follows me like a shadow wherever I go. Some people say I sold my soul to a demon in exchange for an infernal protector.”

“I’m sure they say that,” Shizuo says. “Primarily because you tell them so, right?”

“That’s not true,” Izaya says, and ducks free of Shizuo’s hold so he can step away by a few feet and flash a grin in the other’s direction. “If  _I_  were making up the stories they wouldn’t be nearly so tame.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows jump up. “ _Tame_?”

“That’s right,” Izaya says, and twists to face Shizuo as he clasps his hands behind his back and flutters his eyelashes. “I tell everyone who asks that you’re an incubus, of course. What’s the point of selling your soul to a demon if you don’t get mindblowing sex out of it?” Shizuo makes a strangled noise that falls somewhere between a laugh and a yelp of protest and Izaya grins and turns away again, letting his arm swing wide into a flourish. “I’m  _so_  glad you see where I’m coming from on this.”

“Oh my  _god_ ,” Shizuo manages, and jogs forward to catch up to Izaya again. “You’re not actually telling people I’m an incubus.” A beat. “Are you?”

Izaya hums. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Shizuo says. “I really would.”

“Fine,” Izaya sighs, and pivots on his heel again to stop Shizuo in his intent pursuit. “I haven’t said anything of the sort.” He pauses just long enough for Shizuo’s shoulders to sag into something like relief before he takes a breath to go on speaking. “I mean, I  _might_  have mentioned the mindblowing sex a few times, but--”

Shizuo groans. “ _Izaya_.”

“Oh look there’s Celty,” Izaya says, only turning around as he finishes his statement and lifts his hand to wave. “Hey there Celty!” Shizuo growls over his shoulder in put-upon irritation that Izaya doesn’t believe for even a heartbeat, and Izaya takes advantage of the opportunity to dart forward and join Celty, who is just standing up from where she was sitting against the far end of a park bench. She ducks her helmet in acknowledgment of Izaya’s greeting before she tips sideways to peer over his shoulder with something like concern visible in the strain of her shoulders as shadows flicker over the screen of her phone.  _Is Shizuo alright?_

“He’s fine,” Izaya says without looking back to his approaching boyfriend. “He’s just stressed though I can’t imagine why.” He tips his head sideways to flutter his lashes at Shizuo. “I keep telling him he should take a rest day but he’s such a workaholic, he never listens to my advice.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Shizuo protests, and Celty is typing again, her  _uh huh_  coming so fast it loses none of its skeptical tone for the brief delay it takes her to produce it. “This was  _supposed_  to be our day off. You’re the one who insisted that we all meet up in the middle of the park.”

“Yes,” Izaya admits. “Opportunity waits for no man, I’m afraid. Or woman. Or--” with a duck of his head and the wave of a hand to Celty, “Fairy, I suppose.” He straightens and makes some show of lifting his gaze from the question mark Celty is holding up to him to the street just past the treeline behind her. “Just a moment, we’re waiting on one more visitor before the party is complete.”

“You’re always so melodramatic,” Shizuo sighs, and Celty nods with force enough that she doesn’t need the addition of words to carry the edge of irritation that clearly comes with the reaction. “Kadota’s coming, right? Why did you need to get everyone together in the park for this, couldn’t we have just met at the apartment?”

“We couldn’t have,” Izaya says without looking away from the street. There’s the sound of an engine rumbling from a block away, the rattle of metal approaching in the familiar outline of a van; he watches Togusa pull up to the curb, watches the van come to a halt before the headlights shut off and the engine hums to silence. The door opens, a dark shape tumbles out, and Izaya sighs and tips his head to look at Shizuo as Erika reaches inside to urge the last visitor out of the the backseat of the familiar van. “We have a special guest joining us tonight.”

It takes a moment for Kadota’s group to get the girl out of the backseat. Erika is smiling and gesturing expansively, clearly aiming for friendliness that Izaya thinks might seem more threatening than otherwise; Walker is still inside the van, Izaya can just make him out if he squints. The pair of them are doing their level best to urge the girl with them free of the relative security of the van and out into the golden glow of the setting sun, but it’s not until Kadota comes around from the passenger seat and gestures preemptorily at the girl inside the van that there is any kind of motion from the guest within. The three of them watch the others approach: Celty still sitting at the edge of the bench, her helmet turned as if she needs to see to watch what’s happening, and Izaya standing at the end of it, watching Shizuo’s shadow lengthen and bleed into his own as Kadota takes a grip at the girl’s shoulder and begins walking her forward. It seems an unnecessary precaution, to an idle audience; but Izaya can see when the girl’s attention lands on Celty, can see her green eyes go wide with panic, and it’s only Kadota’s hold on her that keeps her from bolting outright. Erika and Walker come forward at once, each of them laying claim to one arm while Togusa brings up the rear, and they all five come forward like that, more or less carrying the girl forward in spite of her own evident wish to be somewhere far different than where she is now.

“Good evening,” Izaya calls as they approach, tipping his head and flashing a smile as he lifts his hand into a genial wave. “Glad you could make it. You didn’t have any problems, did you?”

“No,” Kadota says, rather more brusquely than Izaya thinks his politeness really merits; but he’s looking at the girl instead of at Izaya, fixing her with the full intensity of a frown before he jerks his head towards the bench where Celty is just starting to her feet, her motions jerky with surprise as the girl finally comes close enough for the pattern around her neck to be visible underneath the shadowy fall of her red-tinted hair. “There,” he says, and pushes at the girl’s shoulder to urge her forward, breaking her free of Walker and Erika’s hold as he does so. He lets his hand fall as soon as she’s free, leaving the girl standing unrestrained in the midst of a semicircle too close for her to try to bolt in any direction except through Celty directly. “Tell her.”

The girl’s eyes flicker from one of them to the next: to Celty, briefly, and then to Izaya’s fixed smile, and up to Shizuo behind him. Over her shoulder to Kadota and Togusa, and sideways towards the brilliant, unbreakable smiles of Erika and Walker; and forward again, towards Celty and the open space on either side of her. Her best chance of freedom is forward, right past Celty’s weighted shoulders and trembling hands; Izaya doesn’t even think Celty would think to snap her shadows up to make the net that she ought to, if she wants to keep this girl here for answers. But the girl’s eyes are wide, and when she lifts her head it’s Celty’s helmet and not her shoulders she’s looking at, and Izaya doesn’t think at the moment she’s aware of anything at all other than the figure in front of her currently tapping against the keypad of her phone with fingers shaking more badly than Izaya has ever seen them before.

Izaya can’t see what Celty’s writing -- the angle of the phone is wrong for him to get a good line of sight to the screen -- but he doesn’t need the specificity of words to guess at the general reassurance the other is likely to offer. It takes the girl a moment to look at the screen -- she looks all but transfixed by Celty’s helmet, as if she’s been hypnotized by the yellow shine of it -- but Celty waits, holding it out at arm’s length until the girl’s gaze has skimmed over the screen. Izaya takes a half-step sideways, shifting his weight while the girl’s attention is elsewhere, and he has a better angle on Celty’s phone, like this, can pick out the details of  _No one’s going to hurt you, I promise_  before she clears the screen and types a new message.  _Where did you get that scar?_

Izaya could predict the girl’s reaction well before he sees it. Celty lifts the phone, offering the flat of it with the same nonthreatening action she gave with the first message; and the girl jerks backwards, flinching away as she lifts her hand to her neck to press hard against the line marking out her throat. She runs up right against the weight of Kadota’s chest with force enough that Izaya thinks she would fall were it not for Kadota catching at her shoulders to steady her; but she’s not looking at him, isn’t so much as blinking as she stares wide-eyed at Celty and shakes her head in mute panic. Celty ducks her head, frustrated concern clear just in the motion of her helmet; Izaya watches her erase the last message and try again.  _We’re not going to hurt you, really. I just want to know where your head came from_. This has no better effect than the last; the girl is flattening herself against Kadota’s support entirely now, shaking her head so hard Izaya doesn’t think she can read Celty’s message at all. Celty lets her hand fall, her shoulders slumping into uncertainty at this seemingly insurmountable obstacle; and Izaya clears his throat and shifts his feet to draw the girl’s attention to him.

“Just to be clear,” he says, speaking deliberately loudly and keeping his gaze fixed on the toes of his shoes as he scuffs them against the pavement underfoot, as if that’s the most interesting thing for him at the moment. “We already know who helped you.” The girl’s head jerks as her attention swings to him as the newest greatest threat but Izaya doesn’t lift his gaze to give her the benefit of his attention as he goes on speaking. “Yagiri Pharmaceuticals has decent security in place, but their employees talk too much.” He lifts his chin fractionally, just enough to look up from under the shadow of his hair to meet the girl’s wide-eyed gaze. “You’re not selling out your future sister-in-law, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Every eye in the circle comes up to stare confusion at Izaya. Even Celty’s helmet turns, the dark of her visor swinging around as if she really needs to look at Izaya to see his expression; over his shoulder Shizuo hisses, either from understanding of Izaya’s implication or just from concern at the other’s maneuver. But the girl’s eyes are going wide, wider, opening as far as they will go as her lips part on unvoiced shock; and then her expression crumples, the blank of her features gives way to a surge of emotion, and when she wails a sob it’s shocking enough to bring all that attention back to her and away from Izaya once more.

“She said no one would know!” the girl protests. “It was supposed to be a secret, she said it was to keep Seiji safe, she said this way I could finally have him love me like he was supposed to!” Her voice is high and breathless, her speech spilling past her lips with a rapidfire pace; Izaya can see everyone else gaping shock at this sudden shift of personality, but he doesn’t look away from the tears starting in those wide green eyes. “It was only because I loved him that I broke into his apartment in the first place, there’s nothing all that wrong with that is there? It’s where I was supposed to be anyway, I’m sure he would have understood if I had had a chance to talk to him about it. But then there was that head in the jar, and Seiji lost his temper, and he didn’t  _really_  want to kill me, it was just an accident, Seiji just went a little too far, you know how it goes! And then big sister told me she could have my face fixed, and that she would tell Seiji it was the head in the jar that she had attached to my body, and then Seiji would love me just like he loved the head, but it would be even better for him because I’d have a body, you know, and I could convince him to stay with me before he found out the truth and everyone would be happy!” She twists in Kadota’s hold, jerking sharply free as she steps forward into the open space in the midst of them. “Everything would have been  _fine_  if you all hadn’t interfered!”

There’s a beat of a pause while everyone stares at the girl in front of them. Izaya takes the opportunity to consider the different expressions: the slow-spreading entertainment on Walker and Erika’s faces, the utter confusion on Kadota’s. Over his shoulder Shizuo has gone as perfectly silent as he does when he’s truly lost, and next to him even Celty’s fingers have stilled on the open keyboard of her phone. For her part the girl seems to have regained whatever self-confidence she gave up along with the sound of her voice; she tosses her head to flip her hair back over her shoulder and huffs audible frustration as she considers the whole circle of them.

“You  _did_  interfere,” she says, with something like the very start of petulance on her tone. “But I’ll still make Seiji love me anyway.” Her chin comes up, her lips curve onto a smile as her eyes go glassy with distraction. “He’ll  _have_  to. All I have to do is make him understand just how much I love him!”

Izaya clears his throat. “I wish you the best in your romantic endeavors,” he says, and then lifts his hands defensively as the girl’s head snaps around and she fixes him with a skeptical glare. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of blossoming young love.” Shizuo snorts over his shoulder but Izaya doesn’t turn around to dignify that with acknowledgment. “Just to be clear so we’re all on the same page.” He lifts his hand to his own throat and gestures to mirror the line of the scar running along the girl’s neck. “This isn’t really from you being beheaded.”

The girl snorts. “No,” she says. “Of course not. That would  _kill_  me.”

“Right,” Izaya says with as much calm on his tone as he can muster. “That’s part of the plastic surgery you had done by the Yagiri corporation.”

“Yes,” the girl says. “Big sis said she’d keep it all a secret.”

“It’s not Namie’s fault,” Izaya soothes. “I’m  _very_  good at finding things out.” He lets his hands fall in front of him to interlace his fingers and clasp them together. “Just one more question and then you can go return to your Seiji’s side.”

The girl’s head lifts, her eyes brighten. “Yes.”

“You had plastic surgery done,” Izaya says, repeating over the detail the girl has already confirmed for them all. “To look like the disembodied head that your Seiji is so enamoured of.” The girl ducks her head in a nod, looking only a little bit impatient at this review of established facts. “So the doctor knew what the head looked like, right?”

“Yes,” the girl says without hesitation. “Of course. It was right there with them for reference when they were working on my face, I saw it before I went under.”

“Of course.” Izaya slides his hand into his pocket to ease his phone free and unlock the screen one-handed. “Is this the doctor who did the work?” he asks, and he turns the phone around to offer the image he has pulled up for the girl to see. The four behind her lean in close, squinting and crowding to make sense of the image; it’s Kadota who understands first, who rocks back on his heels to look at Izaya with wide eyes for a moment before his attention skips sideways to Celty. Celty isn’t trying to look at the screen; she’s looking at Izaya too, her helmet turned in his direction while her fingers flutter over the keyboard of her phone with a rapidity that speaks more to her unsettled state of mind than the  _what…?_  she forms on the screen before her.

“Yes,” the girl says, her voice clear and loud in the quiet of the park around them, and she straightens from leaning in to look at Izaya’s phone. “That’s him right there next to the blond guy.”

“Right,” Izaya says, and he pulls his phone back to flip it over in his hand and offer it to Celty next to him. “Thanks so much for your help.” He tips his head to look sideways at Celty as she pockets her phone in a rush and reaches out to cradle his own between both hands, to bring it in closer to her helmet as if pulling closer will change the identity of the four figures pressing together on the screen to fit into the shot. “You’re free to go. Sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s fine,” the girl chirps. “It’ll make a good story for me to tell Seiji anyway!” And then she’s off, turning sideways to slip between the gap between Walker’s shoulder and Celty’s hunched figure with no more farewell than that. Kadota looks to follow her, his attention holding to her motion as she darts away across the park; but Izaya is watching Celty instead, as she leans in over the screen of his phone as if proximity might undo the recognition of the face in the image, and he’s not sure, yet, what to expect. He isn’t sure how Celty will react to Shinra’s confirmed betrayal on this point, if she will be angry or disbelieving or tearful, insofar as she can be; and it’s in the tension of uncertainty that there’s movement, the shift of a shadow just behind Izaya, and Shizuo steps forward to reach out for Celty’s shoulder. His hand lands against the smooth of her riding jacket, his fingers tighten as her helmet swings up towards him, and when he speaks his voice is even, steady and smooth and calm in that way that Izaya can feel run right down the length of his spine as if to steady his balance just by the sound, as if to fix him as solidly to the earth as Shizuo’s own feet are. “Do you need us to go find Shinra for you?”

He doesn’t put words to the threat. He doesn’t need to. Izaya can hear it thrumming in the air, can feel it rippling down his spine with some measure of that heat he first felt as a child watching a middle schooler tear metal free of the solid weight of cement, the first time he saw the color of blood staining Shizuo’s skin a crimson suited to the fire behind his furious eyes. There’s a weight there, a solid wall of comeuppance in the words as he offers them to Celty, like he’s holding out the loaded gun of his strength for her to direct; and Izaya can feel his whole body go helplessly hot in answer, as it always does when Shizuo frames himself as the danger he truly is. Celty’s helmet tips back, her hands hesitate over her phone; and then her shoulders dip, and her helmet ducks forward and into a shake even before she reaches out to press Izaya’s phone against the span of Shizuo’s chest. Izaya steps forward to take it from Shizuo’s hold even before the other is turning to offer it to him, and it’s back in his pocket by the time Celty is turning her phone around to offer the screen to them.

 _No_ , the phone reads, the text certain and steady as her grip on the sides of it.  _Thank you. I should talk to him myself_. She holds it up for a moment for them to read before bringing it back around to type out another message.  _We have a lot to discuss_.

“You do,” Izaya agrees. He shifts his weight to tip in against Shizuo’s arm and lean against the other’s support; when Celty tips her helmet in his direction he flashes his teeth in a grin. “Let us know if you want any support.”

“Anytime,” Kadota puts in.

Celty ducks her head. Izaya imagines he can almost hear her huff of laughter.  _Thanks_ , she types.  _I’ll be off for now then. See you all later._  She offers the phone to the group as a whole, waiting until she’s received a nod or a wave from the others before she turns to head towards the street where the flat black of her motorcycle is parked.

“Hey Celty!” Shizuo calls after her. Celty pauses and tips her head back to look at them; Shizuo lifts his arm to brace around Izaya’s shoulders. “Don’t let him off too easy.” Celty’s shoulders tremble with silent laughter, her helmet tips forward; and then she lifts her hands before her so she can slam the weight of one fist against the palm of her other hand. It’s an evocative movement; it makes Kadota snort and Izaya grin before Celty lifts her hand to wave and turns to leave for good.

The rest of them stand in silence for a moment after she’s gone; Shizuo’s hold on Izaya’s shoulders is tighter than it needs to be but Izaya’s not about to complain about that. Finally Togusa takes a breath, and Kadota heaves a sigh and lifts his hand to pull idly at the weight of his hat.

“I hope things turn out okay for them,” he says, with a tone rather more of finishing a conversation than beginning one. He looks to Erika and Walker before jerking his head back towards the road where Celty has just departed. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

“Yes!” Walker cheers, lifting his hand to punch at the air, and Erika bounces onto the balls of her feet and claps her hands together. “Oh, oh, is it your treat, Dotachin?”

“Not if you keep calling me that,” Kadota says without missing a beat, and lifts his hand to wave to Shizuo and Izaya. “See ya.” And then he’s turning away too, with Togusa at his elbow and Erika pushing in past Walker to cling to his arm as a means of adding additional force to her pleas. Izaya smiles as they walk away, amused as ever by Kadota’s gang of devoted misfits; and then Shizuo’s hold on his shoulder tightens, and his attention swings up obediently to meet the other’s gaze.

“You planned all that,” Shizuo says, in a low voice more wondering than accusatory. Izaya lowers his lashes to shadow over the gaze he’s turning up at Shizuo but he doesn’t bother to put voice to a protest. Shizuo’s forehead creases, his mouth dips onto a frown. “What was the point?”

“Who says there needed to be a point?” Izaya says with as much lightness as he can possibly infuse into his tone. “Maybe I was just bored and wanted something to amuse myself. What are the lives and happiness of my friends and acquaintances compared to my own entertainment?” He flutters his lashes up at Shizuo and essays a quirk of his mouth that combines flippancy with taunting; but Shizuo doesn’t so much as blink, doesn’t even give Izaya’s attempt at distraction the benefit of a scowl. Izaya lets his head duck down and fixes his gaze instead on the bench in front of them, where Celty was perched when they first arrived.

“That girl’s been wandering around the city for a week,” Izaya says, speaking softly so his words will only barely be audible to Shizuo next to him. “With a scar like that it was only a matter of time before she caught Celty’s attention.” He lifts his head up to fix his gaze on the color of the sunset starting to spread over the sky above them. “Who knows what could have happened if Celty was caught off-guard by it, or if the girl’s crazy boyfriend had shown up at the same time?”

Shizuo snorts. “Celty could deal with them both.”

“Oh sure,” Izaya agrees. “But could she have dealt with them while staying incognito?” He lets that linger for a moment of loaded silence before clearing his throat to go on. “Would she have even remembered to try to pass for human?” He tips his head to the side to look out towards the horizon, where he can just see the glimmer of motion along the freeway overpass miles in the distance. “Now she knows the truth, and she didn’t even have to take her helmet off for it.”

“She does,” Shizuo agrees. “She knows about Shinra, too.”

“That’s right,” Izaya says at once. “He’ll have to come clean about the secrets he’s been keeping from her.” He slides forward and free of Shizuo’s hold, coming forward to step up onto the support of the bench without bothering to take his hands from his pockets as he paces across the width of it. “Honesty is invaluable, if they’re going to make it in the long run.”

“Aren’t you at all worried about her leaving him?”

“Not at all,” Izaya says as he comes up to the end of the bench. “She loves him.” He considers the back edge of the bench for a moment, the narrow line the wood of it makes another foot up from the flat of the base; and then he lifts his foot onto one of the support beams and steps up onto the thin width of it. Shizuo hisses from the other end but Izaya just tips his head back, lifting his gaze to the sky as he trusts his balance to keep him stable against the back edge of the bench underneath his feet. “It’s unfortunate, of course, but I think she’d probably forgive him anything.”

“Get down,” Shizuo says from the end of the bench. “I’m not going to catch you if you fall.”

“No?” Izaya says, and he deliberately lets his foot slide off the back of the bench, lets his balance topple wide. He doesn’t even have a chance to slide his hands from his pockets before there’s an arm seizing around his waist and the solid support of Shizuo’s chest catching at his hip to steady him. Izaya tips his head down to look at Shizuo holding him; Shizuo is giving him an extremely flat look that is only mostly undermined by the tension of a held-back laugh pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Like I said,” Izaya says, and he draws his hands free of his pockets to reach out and slide his fingers into Shizuo’s hair, wandering through the yellow waves and down to curl against the back of the other’s neck. “You’ll forgive anything from the one you love, right?”

Shizuo’s mouth twists against that smile. “You are such a  _brat_ ,” he says; and Izaya laughs, and loops his arm tighter around Shizuo’s neck as Shizuo lets his grin break free over his face at the same time he loosens his hold on Izaya’s waist to let the other slide down against him. Izaya’s toes touch the ground, he catches his weight with his hold against Shizuo’s neck, and when he tips his chin up Shizuo is ducking down to press a kiss against the part of his lips, lingering in the warmth of the contact without letting Izaya down to fully touch the ground. Izaya shuts his eyes, and pulls himself in closer, and gives the whole of his balance over to the keeping of Shizuo’s hands bracing tight against his waist to hold him steady.

No matter what he does, he can always count on Shizuo to support him.


	13. Unrest

_Good mooorning_ , Izaya types into the message bar for the chatroom.  _Anyone up yet?_

 _I am_. That’s from Setton’s icon, the default image with the black background; it’s barely appeared on the screen for a breath before it’s followed by Tanaka Taro’s  _Me too. Good morning, Kanra._

 _It’s nice to have us all here at once_ , Izaya types.  _It’s been a little while, hasn’t it?_

 _I’ve been busy with school,_  Tanaka Taro volunteers.  _It’s been a little rough getting settled._

 _That’s right. You just moved here, didn’t you?_  That’s Setton again, with the usual rapidfire pace that Izaya associates so strongly with the flicker of shadowy fingers over phone keys.  _I hope the city hasn’t been too harsh to you yet. There can be some really dangerous characters around here._

 _That’s what makes it fun,_  Izaya offers back, more to be argumentative than anything else.  _Have you caught a glimpse of the Headless Rider yet?_

 _I did!_  That’s Tanaka Taro again; Izaya grins at the flashing icon that indicates Setton has been stalled in their typing mid-message.  _I was at an intersection with my friend and he went right past us, it was awesome!_

 _You’re a true resident of Ikebukuro now,_  Izaya tells him.  _Congratulations~_

 _My friend said even he hadn’t seen the Rider up close like that before_ , Tanaka Taro goes on.  _It was so cool, I hope it happens again someday soon! Have you had a chance to see it, Kanra?_

 _As a matter of fact I have_. Izaya’s grinning at the screen as he types but he doesn’t let his amusement slow the easy flow of his words.  _Sometimes I go out looking for it if I don’t have anything better to do in the evenings._

 _That’s right_ , Setton says, with near-frantic haste in the speed of their response.  _You’re usually up really late. Why are you around this early in the morning?_

Izaya smirks at the screen of his phone. It’s a clumsy attempt at a subject change at best, but probably enough that Mikado won’t pick up on the implication that Izaya sees; for now, at least, Celty’s identity isn’t obvious from the interactions they’ve had in the chatroom.  _My boyfriend and I got into a fight,_  Izaya types.  _I made him stay on the couch for the night but then I couldn’t get to sleep._

There’s movement from the other side of the bed, a shift as if Shizuo’s attention has been drawn by even this vague and entirely invented reference to him. “Izaya?” he mumbles, and lifts his head from the pillow to blink sleepy attention at the other sitting up against the support of the headboard behind him. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” Izaya says, and sets the phone aside for a moment so he can reach out to slide his fingers into Shizuo’s hair and trail against the back of the other’s neck. “You can keep sleeping, though.”

“Mm.” Shizuo yawns hugely and squints across the bed in the general direction of the clock. “What time is it?”

“Early,” Izaya doesn’t answer, and he presses his hand against Shizuo’s shoulder to tug and urge the other in towards him. “Come here.”

“Why are you awake,” Shizuo half-protests, but he’s moving obediently to Izaya’s pull to slide across the bed and the tangle of sheets between them as he reaches out to loop his arm around the other’s waist. Izaya draws him in closer, urging him forward until Shizuo is tipping in and over his lap, his head falling heavy against Izaya’s thigh while he huffs a breath into the tangle of sheets beneath them. “You’re going to be tired later.”

“I’ll take a nap,” Izaya soothes, and slides his hand up along Shizuo’s neck to ruffle into his hair instead. “Go back to sleep, senpai.” Shizuo makes a low noise against his leg, something a little bit of a grumble that Izaya assumes is protest to his own consciousness, but Shizuo’s relaxing all the same, turning his head in to make a pillow of Izaya’s lap as his arm tightens around the other’s waist like he’s holding onto the security of Izaya’s presence even in his sleep. The thought makes Izaya smile, even if Shizuo isn’t looking up to see it, and when he brings his phone back up to look at the screen it’s with one hand still tangling into Shizuo’s hair to ruffle through the strands and urge the other back down into rest while Izaya amuses himself with the chatroom.

There’s a handful of messages waiting for him.  _What a coincidence_ , Setton has said, as Izaya knew they would.  _I’ve been having a disagreement with my partner too._

 _Oh no,_  comes Tanaka Taro’s reply.  _I hope it’s nothing serious._

 _Not really_ , Setton demurs.  _We just have a...difference of opinion on a few subjects that we’ve been working out._

Izaya smiles at the screen. “That’s one way to put it,” he murmurs, but what he types is:  _Think you’ll be able to work it out?_

 _Of course_ , Setton replies immediately, with enough speed to assuage whatever idle concern Izaya might have had on the subject.  _We love each other, we’ll make it work._

 _That’s great,_  Tanaka Taro says.  _I hope I can find someone like that someday._

 _Are you looking for a girlfriend?_  Izaya teases.  _I could ask around and see if I could set you up on a blind date with one of my acquaintances._

 _No, no!_  Tanaka Taro protests, while Setton chastises with a  _Don’t tease, Kanra_. Tanaka Taro continues:  _I’m not in any hurry. It just seems like it would be nice to have someone you can count on to care about you no matter what you screw up._

 _It_ is  _pretty nice,_  Izaya types. His fingers wander through Shizuo’s hair, smoothing down against the soft of the bleached-yellow waves as he starts to type another message into his phone one-handed.  _For me at least--_

The screen flashes, the notification bar across the top of the chat lights up:  _saika has joined the room_. A red icon appears on the screen at once, flashing with the indication that the sender is typing; and then:

_human_

_strong_

_want_

_love_

Izaya raises his eyebrows.  _Morning to you too_ , he types.  _Friend of yours?_

_wantlovehuman_

_wanthumanlovestrong_

_No,_  Setton says.  _I’ve never heard from them before._

 _Me either_ , Tanaka Taro offers.  _Maybe they’re a troll?_

_want love strong so human_

_Good morning_ , Izaya tries again.  _Do you come in peace?_

_love want strong human yes_

_Are you even reading the messages?_

_yes so want_

_Guess not_ , Izaya types.  _It’s just a spam bot._

_,_

_so, so, so so_

_I_

_I, so, want_

_It’s kind of creepy_ , Setton says.  _Can’t we block it or something?_

 _It’s not a big deal,_  Izaya soothes.  _Maybe it just wants to make friends! Hey, saika! Are you a lonely little bot?_

_I, so, want, , ,_

_strong, yes, is, human_

_strong, human, want, I, love_

Izaya’s skin prickles as if with a chill, like the window is open and letting a shiver of ice into the warmth of the room. He deliberately loosens his hold on Shizuo’s hair, easing his grip so he can slide his fingers down through the sleep-tangled locks and in against the back of the other’s neck. Shizuo is fully asleep again; Izaya takes a breath, trying to pace the flutter of his lungs to the steady slow of Shizuo’s inhales against him.

 _How did it get the link to this chatroom?_  Tanaka Taro asks.  _I haven’t given it to anyone recently._

 _It’s still up on one of the old Dollars boards,_  Izaya types back. Between his messages the newcomer is still typing:  _must, get, closer_.  _You can find it on the web if you’re a member of the group and logged in. Who knows who’s in the group at this point._

 _Ah_ , Tanaka Taro types. The messages continue in the pause:  _to, strong, person_.  _Maybe the leader should take a look at who’s a member._

 _Good luck to them_ , Izaya types.  _The group is way too big, it’s impossible to try to restrict it now. Anyone could just get an invite from one of their friends._

_get, stronger_

_moremoremoremoremore_

_This is freaking me out_ , Setton says.  _Can’t we block it or something?_

 _I’ll look at the settings_ , Izaya says.  _Hang on a sec_. He opens up the chat settings, scrolling through the personal preferences and down to the Admin section; clicking on it pops up a demand for a password. It takes him a moment to enter it in with just one hand; in the meantime the spammer is still sending messages, peppering each almost-sentence with enough commas to span a whole paragraph.

_in the end, approach, cut, I, love_

_found, goal, found, love_

Izaya’s screen flickers and the admin menu for the chat pops up. There’s a list of users: Setton, and Tanaka Taro, and Kanra, with a timestamp for their respective logons. And there, at the bottom of the list, with that blood-red icon:  _saika_ , and a timestamp dated a few minutes before.

“Got you,” Izaya murmurs, and reaches for the button to block the user.

_Shizuo_

_Heiwajima_

Izaya freezes. He’s not focused on the chat screen, his phone is highlighting the menu he’s in instead; but he can see the messages still scrolling in the background, can see the familiar text spilling out from the crimson icon like blood pulsing from an open wound.

_Heiwajima, Shizuo_

_Heiwajima Heiwajima Heiwajima Heiwajima Heiwajima Heiwajima Heiwajima_

_Shizuo Shizuo Shizuo Shizuo Heiwajima Heiwajima Heiwajima Shizuo Shizuo Shizuo Shizuo_

Izaya’s thumb presses down on the  _Block_  button, his screen flickers acknowledgment; and the icon cuts out, vanishing from the screen as quickly as the chatroom forces the logout. Izaya hesitates for a moment, trying to return his breathing to normal; and then he exits out of the admin screen and returns to the flashing message bar once more.

 _All done_ , he types, sending the message as quickly as he can with his hand shaking where he’s holding the phone. It would be easier to steady the device between both palms at once, but Izaya doubts there is any power on earth capable of easing the fist he’s made on Shizuo’s hair under his fingers.  _That’s what they get for being a spammer. No trolls welcome here!_

 _Thanks Kanra_ , Tanaka Taro types.  _What a weird bot. Do you think it’s supposed to be some kind of threat against this Heiwajima Shizuo?_

 _Nah_ , Izaya types. He has to try twice before he can get his thumb to land against the correct keys.  _Everyone knows about Heiwajima Shizuo. It’s probably just the first name it found linked to a search of Ikebukuro_. It’s not -- Izaya has seen to it that neither he nor Shizuo show up on the first layer of internet searches -- but he doubts Mikado knows that, and it’s as good a way as any to end the conversation.  _It’s just a stupid spam bot._

 _It was still creepy_ , Setton says.  _I think I’m going to sign off._

 _Aww, Setton!_  Izaya types.  _You’re really going to let a troll scare you out of the chatroom?_

 _No_ , Setton says.  _But I have to get to work anyway. I’ll talk to you two later._

 _Goodbye_ , Tanaka Taro says at once; and then Setton’s icon flashes and dims to inactive.

 _I can’t believe Setton freaked out about a troll_ , Izaya types.  _They’re kind of a scaredy-cat, for all they try to act cool._  He pauses a moment, long enough to make his next statement somewhat plausible, and then:  _Oh, I think my boyfriend’s waking up. I should go and see about making up before he has to go to work._

 _That’s a good idea_ , Tanaka Taro agrees.  _I hope everything turns out fine for you two._

 _It’ll be no problem,_  Izaya types.  _Making up is the best part of arguing anyway. It’s almost worth the fight just for the payoff ;)_

_Haha, well, good luck all the same._

_Thanks_ , Izaya says.  _Bye bye_  and he logs off, barely waiting to see the screen flicker to black before he reaches out to set his phone facedown on the bedside table, as far away from the tangled warmth of the sheets as he can get it. He leans over to urge it farther away, until it’s almost hanging over the edge, and then he turns away, blocking the sight of it with his shoulders as he turns in over the bed to dump Shizuo off his lap so he can wiggle down against the sheets alongside the other. Shizuo makes a low sound of protest, stirring vaguely towards consciousness as Izaya moves; when he opens his eyes his gaze is hazy, as visibly marked by sleep as the rough of his voice when he speaks.

“Izaya?” He lifts his hand from Izaya’s hip as the other slides down towards him, blinking in visible confusion at Izaya’s sudden movement. “I thought you were busy.”

“Not anymore,” Izaya says, and reaches out to curl his arm around Shizuo’s shoulders so he can pull himself in close against the other. “Go back to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, but he sounds distracted, even as he lets his arm fall back to loop around the dip of Izaya’s waist before him. “Are you okay?”

Izaya ducks his head to press his face in against the side of Shizuo’s neck. “I’m fine,” he says against the warmth of the other’s skin. “Do you have a problem with cuddling your boyfriend?”

Shizuo’s huff of a laugh comes warm against Izaya’s hair. “Not at all,” he says, and his hand against Izaya’s waist slides up to brace against the curve of the other’s spine to pull him in closer. “Do you just want to be held?”

“Yes,” Izaya says without lifting his head from Shizuo’s shoulder or loosening his grip around the other’s neck. “Stop talking and hold me, Shizuo.”

Shizuo doesn’t so much as hesitate in obeying Izaya’s demands; when Izaya curls his fingers up into a fist in the other’s hair he even tips in to press Izaya down against the bed under the weight of his body and the angle of his leg. Shizuo is as warm as he always is, the pace of his breathing as smooth and even as ever; but even with Shizuo’s arms tight around him and Shizuo’s exhales going slow and heavy with sleep against his hair, Izaya can’t get the panicked adrenaline of his heartbeat to slow enough to allow for a return to sleep. He stays awake instead, his fingers tight in Shizuo’s hair and his hand pressing close against the back of the other’s neck, and within the span of Shizuo’s arms his heart flutters as if granted wings by his own fears.


	14. Murmurs

“We have to go shopping soon,” Shizuo says. His voice sounds strange, pitched loud as it is to carry to Izaya on the other side of the room but echoed back and muffled by his current position leaning forward into the pantry. “There’s nothing to eat in the house.”

“Don’t be silly,” Izaya says without looking up from the computer he’s ostensibly focused on. “There’s still the rest of that loaf of bread in there.”

“Nope.” Shizuo swings the pantry door shut with more force than it requires; when Izaya glances up at him he’s moving towards the fridge in search of something substantial enough to meet his demands. “We finished that yesterday with those sandwiches.”

Izaya frowns. “What sandwiches?”

“The ones that I made for you for lunch,” Shizuo says without turning around. “And that you ate over your computer.” He pauses with a hand against the fridge door to look back over his shoulder and smirk at Izaya. “Maybe you’d remember if you took enough of a break to notice what you were eating.”

Izaya huffs and deliberately looks back to his screen. “Sorry to break the news to you, Shizuo, but the city is hardly going to hold still just because I’m not paying attention to it.”

“You mean you  _don’t_  have everything wrapped around your little finger?” Shizuo says in tones of put-upon shock. “I never would have guessed.” He moves away from the fridge and comes in to lean over the counter instead; Izaya can see the other moving in his periphery but doesn’t lift his head to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “If that’s the case, can’t you just leave everything to manage itself for a little while?”

“Be quiet,” Izaya says in as haughty a tone as he can manage. “Can’t you see I’m working?” That gets him a laugh, the way it was supposed to; and it sends Shizuo back to rifling through the contents of the kitchen, which was more immediately the goal. Izaya glances up to make sure Shizuo is turned around and on the other side of the room; and then he opens up the minimized window on his computer and frowns hard at the chatroom within.

His attempt at blocking the persistent spam bot has proven an utter failure. It keeps coming back, with greater and greater frequency the more Izaya tries to squash it; by the end of the first day Izaya declared the chat closed down temporarily so he could try to work on the permissions settings to narrow them enough to stop the influx of trolls that seem to be taking over. Setton and Tanaka Taro have been absent from the room for almost half a week, now, and Izaya has been logged in invisibly as a moderator rather than under his usual handle of Kanra; but a lack of apparent audience has done nothing at all to stem the flow of text that “saika” is spilling onto the board. Izaya has no idea how to stop it, no leads to use to track down the culprit; all he finds he can do is watch, staring at the field of barely comprehensible gibberish and feeling his chest tighten with every repetition of  _Heiwajima Shizuo_  that flickers through the logs like a refrain in an endless, mad chant. It’s absorbing all his time, holding all his attention, until the only thing he can think to even try is what he’s been doing uselessly all this time: blocking the user over and over and over again if only to savour the few seconds of silence that come after each futile attempt.

“Is that your phone?” Shizuo asks; and Izaya startles back into himself, and looks down, and realizes his phone is humming on the desk next to him.

“It’s just Shinra,” he says, as an explanation for why he didn’t answer other than that he was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice it ringing. He closes out of the chatroom and reaches for his phone instead to answer the persistent beep of the device. “Hi there, you still alive?”

 _“I am!”_  Shinra chirps on the other line, without any kind of deflation of his usual cheer.  _“I see you’re alright too. Haven’t gotten yourself murdered over some piece of information yet?”_

“Not yet.” Izaya pushes back from his desk and toes against the leg of it to pivot himself around so he can gaze out the plate glass window behind him. “Not for lack of trying, of course. It turns out Shizuo makes an incredibly good bodyguard.” That’s met with a burble of a laugh bright enough to tug a smile onto Izaya’s lips even with the weight of his chatroom problem still hanging in his thoughts. “And you? I was sure your lifespan was measured in minutes after Celty left to  _talk_  with you.”

 _“Oh no,”_  Shinra says without any indication of concern at the fallout of his consummate betrayal.  _“She understood after I explained to her why I did what I did. Our relationship is better now than it ever was!”_

Izaya raises his eyebrows. “Who would have thought helping a money-grubbing corporation steal her head and lying to her face about it would be such a ticket to happiness.”

 _“Yagiri Pharmaceuticals is actually very research-oriented,”_  Shinra clarifies.  _“And I lied to her_ body _about it, not her face.”_

“Of course,” Izaya deadpans. “My mistake.” He tips back in his chair to slouch against the support of it and kicks against the floor to nudge himself into a slow spin. “What do you want?”

 _“I actually was hoping to get some information,”_  Shinra says.  _“Have you heard about the incidents around town recently?”_

Izaya frowns at the screen of his computer as he goes by and kicks at the floor again to keep himself rotating. “Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s been a few more muggings than usual, I guess.”

 _“Right,”_  Shinra says.  _“And everyone’s using knives, right?”_  It’s not really a question as much as a statement; Izaya doesn’t bother giving a proper response.  _“One of them attacked Celty late last night.”_

Izaya steps hard against the floor to cut off the motion of his chair while he’s still facing out over the city. “What?”

 _“That’s what I said,”_  Shinra says, as cheerful as ever.  _“Everyone in the city knows who Celty is; even if they don’t know that she’s a fairy, the rumors all say she can’t be hurt by mortal weapons. But this reporter just attacked her out of nowhere, lunged at her when she was out picking up takeout for our date night. She was really shaken up.”_

“I bet,” Izaya says. He hesitates for a moment, thinking about how to frame his words to avoid alarming Shizuo behind him unnecessarily. “A local?”

 _“Yep,”_  Shinra says.  _“He did a whole interview with her just last week. It’s not like he didn’t know who she was. But he wasn’t responding when she tried to communicate with him, and she said his eyes were glowing, like they were lit up from the inside. Celty said he just came at her like some kind of zombie and that he was saying something really weird about cutting and love and strength. It reminded her of some troll from that chatroom she’s always in. You run that one, right?”_

Izaya shakes his head even though Shinra can’t possibly see the motion. “It was just some spammer,” he says, because it’s easier to dismiss Shinra’s comment than to think about the name that keeps coming up in those endless chat logs, the subject the bots always circle back around to like moths hovering around a glowing lightbulb. “It’s not related.”

 _“Uh huh,”_ Shinra says. He even sounds almost like he believes Izaya.  _“Well, Celty wanted me to check with you. She’s been going on and on about zombies and asking me to make sure she hasn’t been infected by this guy’s knife.”_

Izaya huffs a laugh in spite of himself. “Has she been?”

 _“Not as far as I can tell,”_  Shinra says.  _“She’s still perfect and beautiful in every way! You can’t even see the mark where she says he cut her, it worked just like any other knife.”_

“Hm,” Izaya says. “Sounds like it was just some freak who decided he wanted to take on one of the local legends of the city to me.”

 _“Haha!”_  Shinra laughs.  _“Good thing he didn’t go after Shizuo, right?”_

Izaya has to force himself into a laugh. Even then he can feel it sticking in his throat, awkward and stilted like he’s choking over the sound. “Ha, yeah. Good thing.”

 _“I’m glad everything’s okay,”_  Shinra says.  _“Celty’s been really panicking about it and insisted I call you to check. I’ll tell her you said there’s nothing to worry about.”_

“Right,” Izaya says; and then, after a pause, as if it’s an afterthought: “I’ll fill Shizuo in too.” There’s a motion from the kitchen, a sound of curiosity as Shizuo reacts to his name, but Izaya doesn’t turn around. “Send Celty our sympathy.”

 _“Of course!”_  Shinra sounds utterly unfazed by this, as if the love of his life getting attacked by madmen on the street is a perfectly ordinary occurrence in his life.  _“Good luck with the chatroom!”_

“Thanks,” Izaya says; and then he’s pulling the phone away and tapping the button to hang up just as Shizuo crosses the room to join him.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, before Izaya has even turned around from facing the windows over the city below. “Is Celty alright?”

“She’s fine,” Izaya says without looking up from pocketing his phone. “Just a run-in with a fan who got a little too excited at meeting the real Headless Rider.” He lets his arm drape out over the arm of his chair and lifts his head to gaze bland attention up at Shizuo. “Shinra nearly killed them before Celty could pull him free.”

Shizuo frowns at Izaya for a moment, his forehead creased like he’s fitting the pieces of this statement against each other to see if they fit. “You’re joking.”

“Of course I’m joking,” Izaya says, and pushes up from his chair to step forward and stand just in front of the window, where he can look down and feel his balance tilt and sway towards dizziness at the sheer drop to the movement on the street below. “I was just expressing our sympathy that Celty has decided to stay with our mad scientist friend. I guess they patched things up between them after all.”

“Oh,” Shizuo says. “That’s a relief. Not really a surprise, but I’m glad.”

“Yes,” Izaya agrees. “It  _would_  be strange to have Celty lose her perpetual white-coated shadow.”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums, more a suggestion of agreement than the articulation of it. He steps in closer behind Izaya; Izaya doesn’t look back, doesn’t move away. After a moment there’s a touch at his hip, a hand settling gently against the dip of his waist; when Shizuo ducks in to sigh against the back of his head Izaya shuts his eyes in silent surrender to the contact. There’s quiet for a moment, as Shizuo’s hold steadies Izaya where he stands and Shizuo’s breathing spills warm against the back of his ear; and then Shizuo takes a deliberate inhale, and says, “That isn’t why Shinra was calling,” with a statement in his words instead of a question.

Izaya doesn’t open his eyes. “No.”

“Hm.” Shizuo kisses against the back of Izaya’s ear; the contact is warm against the other’s skin, the pressure of it glancing and ticklish. “Are you going to tell me what he was really calling about?”

Izaya shakes his head fractionally. “No.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No.”

“Liar,” Shizuo says against Izaya’s hair, and Izaya doesn’t bother trying to deny it. Shizuo isn’t pulling away in any case, and that’s all he really wants right now. “Will you eat breakfast if I make something?”

Izaya pouts as if in consideration. “What are you making?”

“It’s a secret,” Shizuo says. “Since you’re so fond of those.”

Izaya huffs a sigh of resignation. “Maybe. If it tastes good.”

“It will,” Shizuo says, and punctuates with another kiss against Izaya’s hair before he draws back and away. “Give me a half hour and I’ll have something ready for you.” Izaya lets go without protest or motion; it’s only once the other has turned to make his way back towards the kitchen that Izaya opens his eyes and tips his head to look back over his shoulder. Shizuo ought to be watching where he’s going, ought to have his mind on whatever concoction he intends to manage with the complete lack of ingredients they have in the house; but he looks back as Izaya tips towards him, glancing back over his shoulder to catch the other’s gaze. He flashes a smile at Izaya, one of the slow, soft ones that look so natural on him and that Izaya never gets tired of seeing; and then he turns to continue on to the kitchen, and Izaya is left to his study again. Izaya watches Shizuo’s shoulders for a moment, appreciating the fit of the other’s loose t-shirt across his back and around the casual shift of his biceps; and then he turns back towards the window, crossing his arms over his chest as he gazes down at the shadows of the streets below.

 _Come and get him if you can_ , he thinks, and lifts his chin to gaze down his nose at the crowds below, at whatever secretive influence is so ready to spill Shizuo’s name over the chat logs and offer threat at the edge of a knife.  _Good luck getting through me first._ It doesn’t help a lot, but it’s enough to warm Izaya’s blood with the heat of competitiveness instead of the chill of creeping horror, and that’s all he really needed anyway.

He’s never had trouble tracking down his enemies, when he needs to.


	15. Fixation

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Shizuo asks as he keeps pace with Izaya along the smooth of the sidewalk stretching down the street before them. “You’ve been jumpy all week. Is something going on on your forums or something?”

“Nothing major,” Izaya says without looking up from his phone. “Just the usual kind of thing, you know.”

“I  _don’t_  know,” Shizuo says, with an edge on his tone that is so softened by audible concern that it comes out sounding more like affection than anything else. “What’s going on? You’ve hardly been in that chatroom you like so much at all recently, is it that big of a deal?”

“No,” Izaya says at once. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay,” Shizuo sighs, sounding more determined than resigned. “Something  _is_  going on.”

Izaya shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “Nothing worth worrying about for you, anyway. I’ll take care of it, senpai.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says; and then, when Izaya keeps walking, “ _Izaya_ ,” coupled with a hand closing at the other’s shoulder to halt his forward movement. Izaya grimaces down at the screen of his phone but Shizuo’s hold is already urging him to turn, and the fact that Izaya knows he could pull free from that deliberately gentle hold doesn’t give him the motivation to actually do so. He lets himself be pulled instead to turn around on the sidewalk and face Shizuo in front of him, and then Shizuo is reaching out to skim his fingers against the side of Izaya’s face and down to catch at his chin and urge his head up.

“Look at me,” Shizuo says. Izaya frowns, thinks about refusing; and then sighs, and lifts his gaze up from where he’s been staring at the dark of Shizuo’s bowtie against the pale of his shirt. Shizuo is looking down at him, his forehead creased on the same concern turning his eyes so dark as he gazes at Izaya before him; his attention skips from Izaya’s eyes to his mouth to his forehead, like the other is a book Shizuo is trying to read in the first moment of seeing him. “What’s wrong, Izaya?”

Izaya can feel his jaw set, can feel stubbornness tensing across his shoulders. “It’s nothing,” he says; but he can feel his hands trembling against the weight of his phone in his hold, and he’s never been any good at lying to Shizuo. He tries to swallow back the knot in his throat that is tightening as if to choke him, tries to shake his head to scatter Shizuo’s focused attention from his face; but the strain is starting to burn behind his eyes, and he can feel his composure giving way with every moment that Shizuo spends gazing at him. “I can deal with it myself.”

“I know,” Shizuo says at once. “You don’t have to, though.”

It’s not a demand. Izaya thinks he would lift his chin up and away from Shizuo’s hold if it were that, thinks he would straighten his shoulders and drop into his haughtiest tone to refuse any kind of support in this. But Shizuo is just looking at him, his eyes dark with worry and his mouth soft with affection; and then there’s the fact that Izaya’s hands are trembling even now, that his whole body is so straining with tension that he can barely remember what it’s like to take a deep breath, and there’s nothing he wants so much as some kind of relief from the constant panic that has gripped him for the past week.

Izaya lifts his hand from his phone to close his fingers around Shizuo’s wrist. “Come here,” he says, before Shizuo can put voice to any kind of a protest, and he’s turning away to urge them farther down the street and around the corner into a narrow alley running between the shadowy weight of two office buildings alongside each other. It’s silent in the space of it, as if the weight of the buildings overhead are pressing any voices into the murmur of whispers; and most importantly it’s as close to private as they will be able to get without travelling back over the distance to retreat behind the locked door of their apartment. Izaya keeps going past the first few feet of cool shadow, all the way back to the height of the fence that blocks off the end of the alley from continuing on to the adjourning street; and then he turns, and lets Shizuo’s hand go, and offers his phone instead.

“There,” he says. “Read that.”

It takes Shizuo a moment to react. He’s still gazing down at Izaya, still frowning as if he intends to read some fraction of the situation from the other’s expression; but Izaya doesn’t look up to meet his gaze this time, just keeps his head ducked down as he offers his phone for Shizuo to read. Finally Shizuo ducks his head to look at the screen, at the words Izaya knows are scrolling across the dark background in an endless parade of too-familiar text; and then he hisses an inhale, and reaches out to take the phone from Izaya so he can fix the intensity of a frown down against the screen. Izaya is left to fold his arms over his chest, pressing tight as if to force his heartrate to an easier pace; it’s only once he has both arms wrapped tight in front of him and his hands braced against either elbow that he lifts his head to look up at Shizuo’s expression as he gazes down at the screen.

Shizuo is frowning. The crease at his forehead is still there, in confusion this time instead of concern; but his mouth is harder, discontent fixing itself in place against his lips as he reads the text off the screen. Izaya looks at the glow of his phone illuminating Shizuo’s face, at the strange angle of the lighting turning the familiarity of the other’s features ghostly and inscrutable, and he takes a breath and he forces himself to speech.

“It’s been like that for days,” he says, as lightly as he can manage, as if repetitions of Shizuo’s name with incomprehensible almost-threats and professions of love are a fully normal occurrence in his day-to-day life. “It’s been impossible to get anything else done, they’ve taken over the entire chatroom.”

Shizuo blinks and looks up from the phone to frown at Izaya instead. “Can’t you just block them?”

“It’s not just one,” Izaya says without loosening his hold on his elbows or easing the strain in his shoulders. “I blocked the first one as soon as they started talking about you but they were back later that day. By now they sign back in as soon as I kick them out, there’s no use in even trying.” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug; the casual rise of the motion is rather stifled by the strain trembling through his body. “Either they’re using proxies or.”

Shizuo doesn’t so much as blink. “Or what?”

Izaya takes a breath and lets it out. It sounds like a shudder at his lips. “Or there’s a whole mob of them all logging in at once.”

Shizuo’s expression tightens. “You think there’s a group of them?”

Izaya shrugs again. It feels like failure, this time, as if he’s trying to shed a weight he can’t get to lift from his shoulders. “Maybe,” he admits. “I don’t know. I can’t find anything about them.”

Shizuo’s mouth twitches. “Even the great Orihara Izaya is stumped?”

“It’s not funny,” Izaya snaps. He lets his hold on his arms go so he can reach for his phone and lift it to bring the screen directly in front of Shizuo’s face. “They’re talking about  _you_ , they’re threatening  _you_.”

“They’re trolls,” Shizuo soothes, and reaches to catch his fingers around Izaya’s wrist and urge the other’s hand down. “Maybe they’re just trying different names to see who reacts.”

“They  _haven’t_ ,” Izaya says, feeling his fingers tighten against the side of his phone as his throat knots on emotion. “You’re the only one they’ve been talking about all this time, just your name over and over and over again and I can’t get them to stop, I can’t--” He ducks his head and struggles over a breath; he can feel the force of it tighten in his throat even as he tries to force himself to calm.

There’s a pause, a breath of quiet. Then: “Izaya,” Shizuo says, his voice very soft and very gentle, and Izaya has to hunch in closer on himself to keep Shizuo from seeing his expression, to keep the wet at his eyes from being visible. Shizuo lets his wrist go and Izaya’s arm drops to his side, the weight of it hanging slack as he tries to hold back the tension in his throat, but Shizuo is reaching out without hesitating, stepping in close and catching his arm around Izaya’s shoulders to pull the other in against him. “It’s alright.”

“Of course it is,” Izaya says, his voice strained and muffled against Shizuo’s vest. “I’m going to handle it, it’ll be  _fine_.”

“ _We’ll_  handle it,” Shizuo says, his tone still gentle but the words firm enough to leave no doubt of the sincerity of his speech. “I’m your bodyguard, isn’t protecting you what I’m supposed to do?”

“It’s not my name they’re obsessing over,” Izaya says without lifting his head. “What are you going to do, punch the computer screen for me?”

“I don’t know,” Shizuo admits without hesitation. “I’ll do whatever I need to. It’ll be okay.” His hand comes up to press against Izaya’s hair and smooth the dark of the locks down against the other’s head. “At least now I know why you’re been so skittish.”

“I have not been skittish,” Izaya protests, lifting a hand to push against Shizuo’s shoulder weakly enough that Shizuo will know he intends it as token instead of true force. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

“I see that,” Shizuo says evenly. “You know you could always  _tell_  me these things instead of keeping yourself up at night fretting about them alone.”

Izaya makes a weak sound against Shizuo’s vest. It sounds like a whine even to his own ears. “You can’t do anything to help me here, senpai. Unless you want to join the chatroom yourself?”

“No,” Shizuo says, and lets his hold on Izaya ease enough so the other can step back and away if he wants. It takes Izaya a moment to steady himself enough to do so; he makes up for it with speed when he does, pulling away all at once so he can lift his head and clear his throat back into the illusion of calm. “But I can pull  _you_  away to bed. When was the last time you slept for more than a few hours together?”

“Be quiet,” Izaya tells Shizuo, as haughtily as he can manage. “I thought you were my bodyguard, not my babysitter.”

Shizuo lifts a shoulder in a lackadaisical shrug. “Bodyguard,” he agrees. “Babysitter. Boyfriend. It’s all basically the same thing, with you.” He lifts his hand to touch at Izaya’s hair and smooth a lock of it back into place. “Can we go home and take a nap now or something?”

“Trying to get me into bed with you now?” Izaya says, regaining some measure of his usual tone now that they’re heading back to more familiar footing. He steps in towards Shizuo to brush past the other with somewhat more lingering contact than the motion really requires; from the huff of a laugh that gets him, his efforts don’t go unnoticed. “You’ll have to be a little more subtle than that if you want to get into my pants.”

“Will I?” Shizuo asks as he turns to follow in Izaya’s wake. “Funny, this approach has always worked just fine for me in the past.”

“Your boyfriend must have no self-control at all,” Izaya sighs; and then, as he cranes his head to look deliberately back over his shoulder to give Shizuo a thorough once-over, “Then again, if  _my_  boyfriend looked like you do, I guess I wouldn’t be too choosy about pickup lines either.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh. “Oh, shut up,” he growls, hitting the low range of his register that always makes Izaya’s skin prickle with heat in spite of himself. Izaya grins and looks up through his lashes to meet Shizuo’s gaze, and it’s then, while his attention is almost entirely behind him, that he steps around the corner of the alley and nearly walks into someone standing there.

“ _Ah_ ,” Izaya yelps, startled into a reaction in spite of himself by the stranger’s sudden appearance. He stumbles backwards, instinct telling him to retreat out of range of any kind of attack; but the other doesn’t move, doesn’t make any motion to react to Izaya’s sudden approach. Izaya catches himself against Shizuo’s chest, the support doing as much to stop his backwards stumble as the grip of Shizuo’s hands coming up to catch at his shoulders, and he collects his composure back around himself in the space of a breath, as soon as he can manage a full exhale.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice dipping down into the lilting singsong he likes to use when he’s unsure of himself or caught too off-guard to properly smooth his tone into something more deliberate. “I didn’t see you there. You’re not hurt, are you?”

The stranger doesn’t answer. The stranger doesn’t actually react at all, not even to bat an eyelash or grimace a frown. Izaya blinks and feels his mouth starting to drag itself onto a frown of uncertainty; and it’s then that he notices the glow of the other’s eyes, the red suffusing the irises and spilling light like a beacon to turn the man’s face strange and ghostly, and Izaya doesn’t need Shizuo’s hands tightening at his shoulders to warn him to keep his distance.

“Right,” Izaya says, still holding to his deliberately calm tone, but he’s bracing his feet against the sidewalk, preparing to move rapidly in whatever direction proves necessary. He becomes clearly aware of the weight of his knife in his pocket, the weapon always within reach but usually as much a part of his background attention as the beat of his heart and the feel of his shirt against his skin. “If you’re not hurt then, Shizuo and I here will just be--”

“ _Shizuo_.”

Izaya freezes. It’s the man speaking, of course;  _moaning_ , more than speaking, drawling long over Shizuo’s name as if he’s an old friend relieved to be reunited with someone long believed dead. His head is lifted, his gaze turned up on Shizuo over Izaya’s shoulder; Izaya has to fight the urge to step sideways and interpose his body between that eerie gaze and Shizuo’s face.

“Shizuo,” the man repeats, and his mouth starts to draw up onto a slack smile, like his lips are being dragged up by invisible fingers. “Heiwajima. Shizuo.”

“You know him,” Shizuo says almost against Izaya’s ear. The words are not a question.

Izaya shakes his head. “No,” he says. His skin is crawling, his legs want to bolt; but  _don’t lead them home_ , his instinct cries out,  _don’t let them know where you live_ , and Izaya can’t make himself break free of his fixed position on the sidewalk.

“Heiwajima Shizuo,” the man says again; and this time he couples it with a step forward, a lurching, uncertain thing that nonetheless brings him far closer than Izaya has any interest in being. Both he and Shizuo flinch back at once, Izaya leaning into Shizuo’s chest and Shizuo dragging at Izaya’s shoulders as if he intends to pull the other directly through him without ever turning his back on the clear and present danger before them. “We found you.” That smile is going wider, spreading over the man’s face like a knife wound; his eyes seem to be glowing brighter, as if they’re gaining brilliance by proximity. “You’re  _strong_.”

“Get the fuck away from us,” Izaya says. There’s no teasing left in his throat any more than there’s a shred of the alarm trembling through the whole of his body; his voice is ice, as unshaking and unflinching as the stare he has fixed on the man before him. “We don’t want anything to do with you.”

The man’s focus flutters, his gaze skipping from Shizuo’s face and onto Izaya’s. His smile melts, giving way like a rubber band allowed to snap back to its natural state. “Not Shizuo,” he says, his forehead creasing. “You’re not Heiwajima Shizuo.”

“No,” Izaya says. He lifts his hand towards his pocket and slides his fingers against the soft fur lining the opening. “He’s with me anyway though.”

“Not Shizuo,” the man says, and shakes his head like he’s shaking off an errant thought. “Not strong.” His head tips to the side, his eyes clear; his mouth drags onto a smile again, his lips curling sharp as a threat as he considers Izaya. “Mother doesn’t need  _you_.” And he’s moving, instantly, with a stunning speed wholly unlike his shambling step before. He covers the ground between them in the span of two strides, flinging himself forward into the motion; Izaya doesn’t have a chance to move, doesn’t have a chance to jump aside even if such wouldn’t leave Shizuo entirely exposed to the pocket knife the man is raising above his head, now, clutched in a fist as desperate as if he’s holding a machete instead of a two-inch blade more dull than sharp. Shizuo can surely take the hit, would likely shrug it off if it even managed to puncture his skin; but it’s instinct moving Izaya now, and instinct hisses fury at his teeth and tells him to step in, to shove forward past the man’s guard and lift his own arm with a speed that snaps the blade of his own knife out and up as his hand comes up to interpose against the attacker’s weapon. Metal catches at metal, the downward trajectory of the other’s blade catches and skids against Izaya’s; and for a brief, heartstopping moment, Izaya is staring straight into those blood-red eyes glowing as brightly as if they are burning from the inside out with whatever external power is motivating their bearer.

“Not important,” the other says. His blade is caught against the joint of Izaya’s; Izaya can feel the pressure the other is exerting trembling in his arm, as if he intends to simply bear Izaya to the ground rather than drawing his weapon free for another blow. The man’s stare is fixed, unblinking, as locked into place as the grimace of a smile at his lips; Izaya’s whole skin is prickling with chill, now, he feels like he’s turning to ice in the face of that gaze. “You’re in the way.” He’s pressing down, he’s leaning in, Izaya’s strength is going to give way; Izaya’s thoughts fire in rapid succession, considering escape routes and possible retreats, but Shizuo’s behind him, he can’t back away and leave the open edge of that glowing blade to--

“Hey, asshole.”

The voice is clear, loud enough to cut through the distraction Izaya and his attacker are locked in; the other’s head turns, his gaze swinging away and off of Izaya with the reflexive response of someone reacting to the sound of their name. Izaya doesn’t turn; Izaya keeps his gaze fixed on those glowing eyes, keeps his attention locked on the brace of his hand as there’s movement in his periphery, as Shizuo steps around from behind him. “Did you just call my boyfriend  _not important_?”

“ _Shizuo_ ,” the man says, dragging the familiar name long and sticky, like he’s balancing at the edge of moaning it into overt heat. “Heiwajima--” and then there’s a blow, the swing of a fist connecting with that open mouth, and Izaya twists back as fast as Shizuo’s punch lands, dodging the wild swing of the stranger’s blade as the other is knocked back and away against the alley wall behind him. He hits hard, with the dull  _thud_  of force that always follows one of Shizuo’s blows, and Izaya doesn’t need to watch the other’s collapse to know he’s been knocked out of the fight. He sucks in a breath of air, feeling the shift of it filling his adrenaline-tight chest as if it’s the first one he’s taken in minutes; and then there are hands at his face, warm palms sliding in and against his jaw, and “ _Izaya_ ,” Shizuo is saying, his voice breaking over fear as he steps in closer, as his touch urges Izaya’s face to turn up towards him. “Are you alright?”

“Shizuo,” Izaya says, breathing relief along with the sound of the other’s name. He lets his arm go slack at his side, lets his white-knuckled grip on his knife ease; when he takes another inhale it sticks in his chest, going taut and strained around pressure that might be tears and might be laughter. “Yes, senpai, I’m fine.”

“He didn’t cut you?” Shizuo says; but his hands are pushing into Izaya’s hair, his gaze is flickering over the other’s face to see proof of Izaya’s wellbeing for himself. Izaya shuts his eyes and lets himself give in to the urging of Shizuo’s fingers, to the urgent touch that reads as much of affection as of fear, until finally Shizuo’s hands ease against him, and Shizuo’s breath rushes out of him as his grip falls to settle heavy at Izaya’s shoulders. Izaya opens his eyes slowly, drawing out the moment of peace as long as he can before he looks up to meet Shizuo’s gaze. Shizuo is looking down at him, his jaw set and eyes dark; there’s a crease at his forehead, something very nearly apology to go along with the determination fixed so steady at his lips. His shoulders are straight, his hold unflinching; as Izaya looks up at him Shizuo takes a breath, and lifts his chin into certainty.

“Alright,” he says, and his hands tighten at Izaya’s shoulders for a moment, like he’s pressing the weight of the other’s clothes against his skin. “I’m going to go kill these guys.”

Izaya doesn’t blink away from Shizuo’s set gaze. “I’m coming with you.”

Shizuo’s mouth doesn’t shift. “You’ll be safer here.”

“You can’t keep me away,” Izaya responds. “If you’re going after them I’m coming with you.”

Shizuo looks at him for a moment. There’s no tension in his face, no sign of rejection in the set of his mouth or the line of his jaw; it’s more like he’s appreciating Izaya’s presence, like he’s lingering over the details of the other’s features the way he does sometimes on lazy mornings, when they’re too warm to get out of bed for long hours of time. Izaya gazes right back, taking in the dark of Shizuo’s eyes, the straight line of his nose, the certain force at his jaw; and then Shizuo sighs an exhale, and lets his hold at Izaya’s shoulders ease.

“Okay,” he says, and he reaches to catch Izaya’s hand in his, to interlace their fingers into affectionate familiarity before he turns to head back towards the main street. “Let’s go take care of this mob of yours.”

Izaya could offer a warning. There have been dozens of users in the chatroom, independent sources all contributing to the same low hum of text, the weight of Shizuo’s name repeated into an endless cascade of wanting static. There’s the glow of this recent attacker’s eyes, and Shinra’s offhand report of Celty’s attack that suggests there may be more to this mob than just a computer virus, something more a parasite than a consciously shared goal. But Shizuo’s hold on Izaya’s hand is steady, and Shizuo’s steps are unflinching; and when Izaya shifts the knife in his other hand it’s only to fold the blade back into the handle and return it to the safety of his pocket.

Izaya thinks Shizuo could take on everyone in the city at once, if he had to. He’s almost looking forward to seeing what happens when the  _saika_ s finally meet the object of their obsession.


	16. Curb

It should be harder to find the mob than it is.

Izaya has no idea where to go. All his experience in the chatroom has been limited to trying to close down the horde of accounts; he hasn’t made any attempt to trace them back to their original user, hasn’t determined any pattern to the sources for the obsessive walls of text. Even the handful of knife attacks he looked up after Shinra’s tip-off seemed to have no defining characteristic; the victims span a wide range of demographics, all genders and ages and social classes, and none of them were able to report any cohesive details about their attacker. Izaya has no idea where to even begin; except for the attacker they left unconscious in the alley behind them, he doesn’t even have a lead. But Shizuo doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even slow his stride as they emerge onto the main street; he takes a sharp left, turning onto the sidewalk as if he knows where he’s going, and Izaya follows him, blinking confusion as he follows the lead of Shizuo’s hand in his.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, after Shizuo pauses at the next intersection only to wait for the light to change before he resumes his certain forward stride. “Do you know something you’d like to share with me, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo glances back at him, his forehead creasing on confusion. “What? No, what are you talking about?”

“You’re walking like you know where you’re going,” Izaya says. “We’re not heading back to the apartment.”

“No,” Shizuo says, and turns back to watch where they’re going as he continues. “I told you, I’m going to get rid of this group.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow and jogs to catch up to Shizuo’s ground-covering strides. “And that means you’re heading...where, exactly?”

Shizuo glances at him for a moment, just a brief flicker of attention before he looks away and forward again. “They’ve been talking about me in that chatroom of yours for a while now, right?”

Izaya can feel his shoulders tense, can feel his fingers tighten on Shizuo’s hand in his. He sets his jaw against the possibility of speech, but when Shizuo glances back at him he ducks his head in admission anyway.

“Right,” Shizuo says. “And you’ve been keeping us all but under house arrest that whole time.” He shifts his stance, slowing his pace slightly so his strides are more deliberate than they were, more long, sweeping things like he’s appreciating the length of them. “So they haven’t had a chance to see me out and about.”

Izaya’s hold is a vice grip on Shizuo’s hand. If it were anyone else, he thinks they’d be hissing in pain. “Yes.”

“So.” Shizuo’s head comes up, his shoulders angle back. “They can see me now. People are always saying we stand out together, right?” He tips his head back to look at Izaya. There’s a flicker of a smile at his mouth, something verging at the cusp of a laugh behind his eyes. “I’m going to where I want to be when they catch up to us.” Izaya’s skin prickles with the imagination of dozens of glowing red eyes fixed on them, on the possibility of what might be posting unseen in the unattended chatroom; but he just ducks his head, and speeds his steps, and follows Shizuo’s lead to his chosen location.

The park is masked in shadows by the time they arrive. The sun has sunk below the horizon in the interval since they left the apartment; with night creeping up around them the familiar shapes of the park have become uncertain outlines, the scattered benches have taken on the shape of cover for possible attackers. Izaya has never been afraid of the dark, has never shied away from the cover of shadows for his actions; but with Shizuo at his side and that uncounted mob infecting his chatroom, he wants nothing so much as to step forward and lay claim to the space himself, to make a barrier of his shoulders between Shizuo and the edge of whatever blades those red-glazed attackers might have. He hisses as there’s movement before them, skips a step forward in instinctive response as a figure forms itself from the shadows; but then proximity undoes the effect of darkness, and Izaya is left facing down the wide eyes and pale hair of the foreign waitress from Russia Sushi.

“ _You_ ,” she blurts, her voice bright and brittle like shattered glass against the smooth pavement underfoot; and then she goes silent, apparently satisfied by this demonstration of more coherency than she has ever offered before. For his part Izaya is staring, caught more off-guard than he expected to be by this surprisingly mundane audience; and so it’s Shizuo who collects himself first, who takes a step forward to interpose between Izaya and the staring girl with a confident grace that brings both of their gazes up to him instead of fixed on each other.

“You should get out of here,” Shizuo says, his voice startlingly gentle, as if he thinks the girl might jump and bolt if he speaks too loudly or moves too fast. “This isn’t going to be a safe place to be in a few minutes.”

The girl stares at him. There’s no trace of comprehension in her face, no sign of reacting to Shizuo’s words; she might as well be a doll for the amount of expression she’s showing. Shizuo huffs a breath and lifts his hand to push through his hair. “Really, you should get out of here. I don’t think I can worry about more than one bystander at a time.”

There’s another pause. Izaya wonders for a moment if the girl is understanding them at all, if it wouldn’t be better to fall back on the direct, unmistakable clarity of a physical threat and trust fear to send her scattering where a warning did not; but then she ducks her head all at once, dipping into a nod so deep it’s almost a bow, and she’s turning on her heel to slip away into the trees and towards the main illumination of the road. Shizuo watches her go, his shoulders still holding to some measure of strain as she takes a turn and vanishes from view; and then he heaves a sigh, and Izaya can feel the tension in the fingers clutching at his hand ease with the breath.

“I didn’t think about other people,” he admits, his voice rough with an edge of self-deprecating frustration. “Do you think there’s going to be anyone else around?”

“No,” Izaya says at once. “I don’t think lurking in the shadows of a public park is a particularly popular way to spend the evening, you should be fine.” Shizuo huffs a breath, the structure of a laugh more acknowledging the half-hearted joke than anything else, but he doesn’t turn around to meet Izaya’s gaze. Izaya looks at him for a moment, watching the way the illumination from distant streetlights halos the edge of Shizuo’s hair to gold and appreciating the set line of Shizuo’s jaw, the unthinking strength so clear in the span of his shoulders; and then he shifts his hand in Shizuo’s, and takes a breath, and drops into a deceptively casual tone as he speaks into the quiet of the park around them. “Are you going to try to shoo me off as well?”

Shizuo’s laugh at that is softer but far more sincere, even before he shakes his head without looking at Izaya gazing up at him. “There’s no point.”

Izaya smirks. “Not as worried about me getting caught up in the fray?”

“I  _am_ ,” Shizuo says immediately, his answer coming as sharp as a blow even before his fingers tighten on Izaya’s hand to underscore the point. “I’m terrified of having you here.” He tips his head to look at Izaya next to him; in the dim lighting it’s impossible to make out the details of his expression, but Izaya doesn’t need light to know the way Shizuo’s eyes look when they go soft with concern, doesn’t need details to be sure of the almost pained set of the other’s mouth. “If I thought you would stay there I would turn around and carry you back home right this minute.”

Izaya presses his lips together and works himself deliberately through a swallow. “You  _could_ ,” he says, adopting a casual tone that brings Shizuo’s attention fully to face him. He tips his head up, lifting his features into what minimal illumination there is from those distant streetlights and the blue-white glow of the moon overhead. “You’d have to tie me down to keep me from following you, though.”

Shizuo’s smile is wide enough that it’s clear even in the dim. “I think I’d have to do a lot more than that to keep you from following me, Izaya.”

Izaya huffs a laugh, aware even as he offers it that it’s coming nowhere near the tension rising at his eyes. “Is that a no to the bondage idea, then?”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans, and then he’s letting Izaya’s hand go so he can press both hands to the other’s face instead, can catch and brace Izaya to stillness between his palms. Izaya can see the shadow of Shizuo’s lashes flicker, can watch the dip of the other’s attention as it skims over his face. “Once this is over I’ll do anything you want me to do to you.”

“That’s quite a promise,” Izaya says. There’s the sound of movement on the far side of the park; if he turns his head he’s sure he’ll see shadows collecting from under the glow of those streetlights. He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t look away from the shadows of Shizuo’s gaze on him. “You had better be sure you mean what you say, senpai, I don’t want to get my hopes up just to have you disappoint me.”

“I mean it,” Shizuo says, and leans in to press a kiss against Izaya’s mouth. There’s no softness to it; it’s hard, forceful, like the strain building in his shoulders and trembling in Izaya’s fingers is caught between their mouths now too. Izaya’s lips ache with it as if with heat as Shizuo draws back. “Anything you want.”

Izaya swallows hard. “Well then,” he says, sounding only a little bit strained, only a little bit terrified. “What the hell are you waiting for then, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo’s laugh is startling more for how bright and sincere it is than the fact of it. Izaya can feel the warmth of the other’s exhale spilling over his mouth, can see the strain at Shizuo’s eyes give way to the crinkling force of his amusement instead. “I love you,” he says, and punctuates with another kiss before he draws his hands away and takes a half-step back. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait,” Izaya says, sounding strangled and feeling frantic; and he steps in after Shizuo, and reaches up to close a fist around the dark front of the other’s vest. When he pulls Shizuo tips forward, caught off-guard and off-balance by Izaya’s hold, and Izaya presses his mouth to the other’s, shutting his eyes to the glow of red growing around them and pushing everything out of his mind but the friction of Shizuo’s lips on his, the heat of the other’s breathing rushing against his cheek, the instinctive give of Shizuo’s body tipping forward in surrender to his own. He lets seconds go by uncounted, lets time slip forward while he lingers in this moment, with his fingers tight on Shizuo’s vest and his mouth warm against Shizuo’s lips; and then he draws back, and he hisses “I love you” into the soft quiet just between their mouths, too low for any one of the crowd around them to hear. Shizuo blinks, his expression softens; and Izaya pushes him away, and steps back at once before he wastes more time in a needless farewell.

“I’ll be cheering for you,” he calls as he falls back into the shadows of the trees at the park perimeter, as he lifts his hands to draw the hood of his coat up to shadow his face. “Kick their asses, senpai.”

Shizuo’s mouth catches at a smile, his breath huffs on a laugh. He lifts a hand to touch at the side of his head, ducking into a half-formed salute as he holds Izaya’s gaze. “I will,” he says, and takes a step back towards the clear space in the middle of the park. “I can’t look bad in front of the person who loves me, can I?” That makes Izaya smile in spite of himself, in spite of the pressure crushing against his chest and sweeping his breath away from him; and then Shizuo is turning and striding forward, and the shadows of the night are emerging to meet him.

There are dozens of them. Izaya’s paranoia has given flesh to hundreds, to thousands of enemies all wandering the city with Shizuo’s name on their lips; he’s told himself that’s excessive, told himself he’s afraid for nothing, that his fears are unfounded and his imagination is frantic. There are nothing like the endless sea of opponents he has imagined in the late hours of the night, the hordes of enemies that have kept him wide-eyed and gazing at a computer screen as a safer alternative than the terrors of his unconscious; but there are far more than he truly expected in his calmer moments. There’s more than two, more than ten; they keep coming, the crowd keeps expanding, as apparently uninvolved passers-by turn sharply and come in to make themselves part of the shadowy mob closing in around Shizuo. There’s a fringe by Izaya, too, a perimeter shuffling through the trees around him; but they don’t spare him a glance, and none of them make any attempt at an attack. Their focus is all ahead of them, all fixed on the same point as Izaya’s own: on the easy slouch of Shizuo’s height, and the span of Shizuo’s shoulders, and the brilliance of his hair glowing like sunlight in the yellow of the streetlamps.

“Ahh.” It’s a sigh, an exhale of relief as if from dozens of voices at once, a single shared breath spilling from the whole crowd around them; Izaya can’t identify the source, can’t pinpoint the leader of that sound. “I’ve been hoping to meet you, Heiwajima Shizuo.” That’s a single speaker, a girl just visible at the fringe of the crowd ringing Shizuo; she’s not separated from the others around her, not unique any more than that initial exhale was. Izaya wonders if she isn’t the instigator, if she isn’t the one responsible for all of this in the first place; but no one is turning to look at her, no one is so much as blinking in their fixed attention on Shizuo before them, and he doubts the leader of such a mob as this would be so willing to fade into the background.

“You’re so wonderful,” the girl sighs, sounding dreamy and lovestruck in a way that makes Izaya’s skin crawl, that tenses his shoulders with a shiver of irrational jealousy as if he’s back in high school and overhearing a confession. “I was watching from a distance when you beat my sister just now. You really  _are_  as strong as Mother said you were.”

The girl takes a step forward. She looks like she’s separating from the rest, like she’s making a motion to break free of the crowd; but the mob just follows her, the motion spreading out into the crowd like a wave sweeping out over those bodies to edge in closer, to eat away at the clear space between those glowing red eyes and Shizuo himself. Izaya slides his hand into his pocket and closes his fingers tight on the handle of his knife; there’s nothing he can do against this many, nothing he can hope to achieve that Shizuo wouldn’t be able to do himself, but it’s a comfort all the same, just as a reminder of his own free will, of his ability to act as something other than a part of that red-eyed horde.

“Shizuo,” the girl says, her voice dipping towards that low, wanting note the man in the alley took, that shadowed-over desire that so chilled Izaya’s blood. “We want to know more about your strength.” Another step forward, another motion of the crowd. Shizuo still isn’t moving; he doesn’t even look tense, doesn’t look at all alarmed by the press of humanity hemming him in where he stands. His shoulders are relaxed, his posture is easy; Izaya half expects him to slide a cigarette free and flick it alight. “We want to see more of it. We want to love you even more than we do now.”

Another step. The crowd is crushing in on Shizuo now; their bodies are obscuring the glow of light around him, shadowing the illumination of the streetlights into the weight of darkness to be crushed beneath their feet. The few that lingered in Izaya’s vicinity are past, now, joining with the outside ring of the mob closing in on Shizuo; none of them so much as glances back at him.

“Now!” The girl is speaking louder now; both arms lift over her head, arching through the air as if she’s putting on a performance. “Shall we make love? We’ll keep loving you, no matter where, no matter how, even when you’re too tired to move! We’ll love you without end!” There’s a smile on the girl’s face, another of those wide, overbright ones that strains at the corners of her mouth and seems to flicker in the bright of her crimson eyes; she looks like she’s about to burst into laughter, like the whole mob is about to dissolve into cackling insanity with the next breath they take. The air is tense, the silence is loaded; and then Shizuo lifts his head to look up at the sky overhead, and heaves a sigh.

“Well,” he says. “It’s not that I’m not flattered.” He lifts a hand to push through his hair; Izaya can see the individual locks part to the force of his fingers before he lets his arm drop back to his side and pushes his hand into his pocket. “This is only the second confession I’ve ever had, you know. There’s not that many people who would be able to care about someone like me.” Izaya makes some sound, a soft note of reflexive rejection to this; he imagines he sees Shizuo’s head turn, imagines he can pick out the flicker of a smile against the other’s lips for a moment. But then Shizuo is looking away again, turning back towards the crowd before him, and when he speaks again his voice is clear and carrying, utterly unflinching in the reply he’s offering.

“Sorry,” he says. “I can’t reciprocate your feelings. Even if you were my type, everyone comes second to Izaya.” Izaya’s breath rushes from him, his chest tightens as if Shizuo has closed a fist around his heart; and before him, highlighted in that golden haze, Shizuo is raising his arm, and stepping forward, and swinging the weight of a punch solidly into the face of the spokesperson for the mob around him.

It’s a beautiful motion. The whole thing, from the shift of Shizuo’s feet to the lift of his arm to the forward impulse of the blow; it’s all artistry, as elegant as if he’s moving through the steps of a dance. On the outskirts of the horde, in the shadows of the night, Izaya feels his skin prickle with heat, feels himself shudder with a years-old memory of a schoolyard, of a boy with a bruised face and bloody knuckles glowing from the inside-out with a strength too much to be human, with a glare too defensive to be anything else. In his pockets his hands close to fists, his fingers curl in on themselves as if in echo of Shizuo’s own; and in front of him Shizuo is moving, is pivoting on a heel as fast as Izaya can blink to twist and land another blow against the chest of one of his attackers. That one is thrown backwards, knocked right off his shaky feet by the blow against him and into the mass of humanity behind him; but the mob is too much to give way so easily, it barely shudders before the attacker is getting to his feet again, his smile flashing wider as he resumes his approach. Shizuo is moving faster, now, his feet skidding on the pavement and his blows falling like rain; it’s as if the usual restraints of humanity are giving way even as Izaya watches, as if even Shizuo’s unthinking strength that can lift him off his feet as easily as it can topple an attacker is something held-back, something restrained to almost mortal levels. But now: every blow throws back a section of the mob as if it’s an explosion, as if Shizuo’s fist is the beginning of a shock wave; every step forces the horde pressing in on him back like an earthquake, as if Shizuo is embodying strength itself, as if his body is flexing and shifting and expanding into the greater reality he always seems just at the cusp of. There are dozens of attackers, the weight of a crowd bearing down on him; but the closer they press the faster they fall, as if proximity to Shizuo is just a way for them to throw themselves forward and into the destruction emanating from every line of his body like a wave. He’s expanding, growing, like the glow catching at his hair and bright against the white of his sleeves is part of his body, is spreading out into the space around him; and then the light stalls out, catching to glint sharply against the blade of an upraised knife, and Izaya doesn’t even have time to shout before it’s falling to tear through the sleeve of Shizuo’s shirt.

It’s not the damage Izaya is afraid for. He has seen Shizuo shrug off punches as if he didn’t even feel them, has seen how little damage knives do to the solid, impenetrable strength of the other’s body; he has seen the other frown after a knife sank inches into his stomach, saw Shizuo upright and functional and utterly unencumbered by the wound not an hour later. Knives present no danger to Shizuo, even the sharpest edge will serve as no more than a paper cut; but it’s not that that crushes Izaya’s chest in a vice grip of panic, that steals his breath in a whimper of terror. It’s just a knife, it’s just a blade; but the wielder is glowing with uncanny light, his eyes are illuminated with scarlet brilliance, and Izaya doesn’t know what that edge might do if it breaks Shizuo’s skin, doesn’t know what damage that light could achieve if it were free to wind itself into a home within the space of Shizuo’s bloodstream. His heart clenches, his shoulders strain; and Shizuo hisses, and turns, and his fist crushes into the face of his attacker without so much as a flicker of hesitation in the blow or the reaction either one. The crowd draws back as one, as if they are collectively taking a sharp inhale of shock; and in the shadows, at the fringes, Izaya’s lungs empty on a gasp of relief at this proof of Shizuo’s continued wellbeing. Shizuo turns to continue the fight, growling vicious satisfaction as he considers the mob around him; and then he steps in, and throws another punch, and the mob gives way before him as easily as that.

Izaya doesn’t know how long it goes on, after that. It could be the span of hours, is more likely a handful of minutes; in his own mind it feels like days, like his whole existence is compressing to fit inside the breathless span of watching Shizuo glow in the satisfaction of his own strength as he crushes out the reality of those nameless fears that have so haunted Izaya for the last days in his overrun chatroom and his frantic nightmares. Shizuo is beautiful, radiant in his own strength and grinning savage satisfaction at the righteous destruction he causes; and Izaya watches him, leaning hard against the tree behind him and feeling like he’s staring at the sun, as if his eyes might burn and fade to blindness from too-much illumination and certain that he couldn’t find the strength to look away even if he wanted to. His heart is racing, his legs are shaking; the panic that curled his fingers in against his palms has gone slack now, melted away from its first frantic pulse and into something heavy and languid with appreciation. Izaya feels like he’s struggling for air, like he’s trying to breathe in the humid weight of steam to fill his aching lungs; and still Shizuo keeps fighting, a vision of destruction with every punch that lands, with every attempted counter that skids wide to score a line of red across his skin that clots closed almost as soon as it forms.

Shizuo is outnumbered, surrounded by a mob of humanity armed with blades of all kinds against nothing but the tight pressure of his own fists and the power of his lean muscles; and Izaya is sure no one in their right mind could see this and so much as dream of placing odds on anyone but Shizuo being the ultimate victor. His enemies keep coming, rising from blows that should have been incapacitating and closing the tighter for it; and Shizuo’s grin pulls wider, his punches hit harder, as if every opponent that gets back up is permission for him to let himself swell further into the untapped possibilities of his body. It’s incredible, it’s exquisite, it’s the most devastatingly beautiful thing Izaya has ever seen; and then there’s a shudder through the crowd, a quiver as if of a full-body tremor shared out across multiple forms instead of just one, and Izaya can see the red fade and dissipate, giving way to the dark of the night as if it’s smoke disintegrating into the air around them. Shared-wide grins fade, dazed eyes blink surprise at the darkness around them; and in front of Shizuo, directly in the path of an oncoming blow, a girl shakes her head, and lifts her chin, and turns her face up like she’s making an offering of her delicate features for the bone-shattering force of Shizuo’s fist.

There is no time to shout, no time to give warning. The light gave way in the span between one breath and the next; Izaya is still choking over his inhale of shock as Shizuo’s blow is swinging forward and down. There’s no time for anyone to react, no chance to stop the attack in the middle of landing; all Izaya can do is stare from the sidelines, helpless to stop what will surely seem an irrevocable disaster in Shizuo’s eyes. Izaya’s shoulders tense, his heart tightens; and Shizuo  _stops_ , his whole body seizing tight as he pulls the blow back mere centimeters from landing. Izaya can see the effort in him, can see the force of that retreat written large in every muscle of his body, in every line of his form; and Shizuo stops, locking himself into place by his own will halfway through the strongest punch Izaya has ever seen him throw.

There’s a moment of complete silence in the park, as dozens of eyes all fix on the same point, as a hundred people all witness the same miraculous event; but it’s Izaya, half-hidden and unseen in the shadows against the fringes, whose breath rushes out of him in a gust half relief and half shock and all complete, unmitigated desire.

He has always known Shizuo was capable of superhuman feats of strength; but even he has never before seen Shizuo strong enough to stop himself.


	17. Ease

Izaya has no idea how they make it home.

He can remember the park: the mob turned crowd, the confusion of the people granted back their sense of themselves as they stirred towards action, as they tried to collect themselves back into some kind of rationality. He remembers a flicker of curiosity in the back of his mind, remembers wondering about the cause of that sudden shift; did the entity controlling the group lose its strength, was it a matter of Shizuo finally offering enough resistance to send whatever it was in search of easier prey? Or was there some more deliberate reason, some kind of coordinated effort that they have to thank for that sudden, startling reversal? He remembers the faces turning towards him, eyes fixing on his shadowed presence that hadn’t bothered to so much as acknowledge him before; and he remembers Shizuo, turning away from the people still milling in confusion around him and the wide eyes of the girl barely saved from the force of his blow to look straight at Izaya staring at him. Shizuo had stepped forward, had pushed through the crowd without consideration for the questions any more than for the hands that reached to lay claim to his attention, and with every step he took Izaya’s vision narrowed, Izaya’s world grew brighter with the force of Shizuo’s presence. Izaya had stayed still, breathless and undone and agonizingly alight with want where he was leaning against the tree behind him; and Shizuo had come forward, striding towards him with such speed that Izaya had wondered for a brief, dizzy moment if Shizuo wouldn’t grab him right where he stands, if he wouldn’t crush him back against the tree with the force of a kiss and the press of his hands. Izaya thinks he might come just from that, might shudder into helpless heat with absolute disregard for the crush of humanity still wandering around them; and maybe Shizuo thinks so too, maybe it’s that that diverts his approach at the last moment. His gaze is brilliant, his attention unflinching; but as he steps close it’s only to seize at Izaya’s wrist, and he keeps moving as quickly, stepping around the barrier of the tree and towards the main road without so much as slowing his stride. Izaya is left to stumble in his wake, almost running to keep up with Shizuo’s steps and with his heart beating so hard on adrenaline and heat at once he can barely think.

The travel is a blur, the distance they cover between the park and their home lost to the haze of Izaya’s desperate attention. Izaya doesn’t remember the street crossing they must have taken, has no memory of taking the stairs or the elevator to get to the topmost floor where their apartment is; he doesn’t remember unlocking the door, doesn’t remember stumbling free of his shoes, or reaching up for Shizuo’s loosened tie, or gasping himself into that first wild press of his mouth against Shizuo’s. He remembers Shizuo’s hands on him, recalls the desperate friction of fingers urging his jacket free and unfastening the fly straining over the heat of his desire; but he doesn’t know if that was his own doing or Shizuo’s, doesn’t know which of them it was that pushed his pants down his thighs or which one fumbled loose the front of Shizuo’s slacks without bothering with unfastening the buckle of the belt holding them up around his hips. It’s enough that it happens, that clothes are shed and zippers undone and lube miraculously obtained; and then Shizuo’s fingers are inside him, and Izaya is moaning and clutching at Shizuo’s neck, and some part of his consciousness returns as the first bleeding edge of wild, incoherent desperation eases to make room for it.

“Izaya,” Shizuo is saying, groaning the words against the side of Izaya’s neck as he pushes up, as his fingers urge Izaya wider with every thrust he takes. Izaya wonders dizzily if it’s the lingering effect of that all-in strength that is making each push of Shizuo’s fingers feel so much like a jolt up the whole length of his spine, or if it’s his own arousal that has dragged him to such electric heights that he feels every moment of friction like a rush of fever-heat in his veins. It doesn’t matter in any case; what matters is the way Shizuo feels inside him, the way the strength of those fingers is turning on him to force him open, to work heat up into the depths of his body as surely as it crushed bones and bruised skin an hour ago. The idea makes Izaya shudder, the thought alone clenching him hard around Shizuo’s touch; Shizuo huffs an exhale, almost growling against Izaya’s neck, and when he reaches out it’s to press his free hand under Izaya’s thigh and hitch the other closer against the strain of his body. “ _God_.”

Izaya lets himself be pulled in, lets his whole body go slack and submissive to the urging of Shizuo’s hold against him. He can feel the heat of Shizuo’s cock pinned against his hip, can feel the proof of the other’s desire bearing in against him even as Shizuo’s fingers stroke up into the tension of his body with unhurried grace; he wonders how long Shizuo’s been hard, if it was the violence or the victory or the heat Izaya knows has been burning in his gaze that has brought him to such heights of want. Izaya’s hand is down against Shizuo’s hips, his fingers dragging for traction more to feel out the curve of Shizuo’s length than with a focused thought to close his grip into a fist and stroke. He could, he knows, it would be easy to bring Shizuo shuddering into orgasm against him even just as they are, but his body is aching with the want to be filled, with the desire to have Shizuo thrusting up and into him with that same reckless heat he all but glowed with at the park, and so Izaya’s touch is more appreciative than otherwise, lingering and dragging over anticipated pleasure for those few moments while Shizuo works him open.

“Senpai,” he gasps, panting over the word and feeling his voice quiver in the back of his throat, feeling his heart fluttering on the adrenaline that has held him in its grasp for long hours, now, of this seemingly endless night. “You were--” and Izaya’s words give way as memory eclipses the present, as his vision blurs into a recollection of golden light on yellow hair, of a fist swinging with tidal force into a mob of humanity surging around that single heroic figure in the midst of it.

Shizuo growls far in the back of his throat, a note of heat and satisfaction that ripples over his tongue and down Izaya’s spine like they’re locked together, as if Shizuo is holding the electricity in Izaya’s veins caged behind the grit of his teeth. “I stopped them,” he says, the words heavy and thick with satisfaction. His fingers urge up and spread open to push Izaya wider; Izaya lets himself fall back against the wall behind him, lets his head tip against the support while his throat works hard over his need for air. His legs are trembling, struggling to support his weight with anything like certainty; but Shizuo is holding to him, and this is hardly the first time Izaya has trusted himself to the grip of Shizuo’s hold. “They’re gone, Izaya, you don’t have to worry anymore.”

“I know,” Izaya gasps. “You did it, senpai, you--” and Shizuo’s fingers stroke up into him, and for a moment his body seizes tight around Shizuo’s touch, every muscle in him jerking to strain as the pressure inside him works in against his inner walls. “ _Fuck_ ,  _Shiz_ uo.”

“ _Tell_  me,” Shizuo growls, the command so vague that for a moment Izaya can’t make sense of it, can’t even make a guess as to Shizuo’s topic. “Next time.” Another thrust, another one of those electric-shock jolts. “Promise me you’ll tell me when you need help.”

“Okay,” Izaya says. He thinks he’d say anything, right now, would babble incoherencies to Shizuo’s liking just for the other’s idle request. “I will.” His fingers slide over Shizuo’s cock, his palm presses in against the slick of pre-come wetting the heat-swollen head. “God,  _fuck_  me, senpai.”

“I will,” Shizuo says, but when he moves again it’s to push up with his fingers still, more sharply than the last time, with force enough that Izaya groans an exhale and clutches desperately at the back of the other’s neck like he’s trying to pull him in closer, as if all the strength in him could possibly be enough to move that unflinching power he saw just an hour hence. The thought makes his cock jerk and tightens his balls in against his shaft, and still Shizuo is working into him, moving faster as his breathing catches, as his hips rock in against Izaya’s palm. “Promise me first.”

Izaya’s legs are trembling badly, now; he can feel heat rising up from his belly, surging higher with every breath he takes and every slide of Shizuo’s touch driving into him. It’s hard to find the breath to speak, much less to make sense of what Shizuo is saying. “What?” he starts; and then, as another rush of heat spills out into him from Shizuo’s fingers, “ _Ah_ ,” a little bit a moan and mostly a plea as his whole body goes tight on the anticipation of satisfaction.

“Promise me you’ll tell me,” Shizuo says; and he’s letting Izaya’s leg go, he’s reaching out to catch his hand against the other’s back instead. The shift pulls Izaya flush against him, pinning Shizuo’s cock against Izaya’s palm and Izaya’s hand between both their bodies; Shizuo’s shadow falls over Izaya’s face, Izaya’s focus swims dizzy-dark over the intensity of Shizuo’s gaze on him. “Next time you’re worried about something. I can’t help you if you don’t  _tell_  me.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya says; and then Shizuo’s fingers come up, and Izaya’s hips jerk forward, and his thoughts disintegrate into a groan of heat. “ _Fuck_ , Shizuo, I’m going to--”

“Promise me,” Shizuo says again, and he’s leaning closer, he’s ducking in to kiss against the line of Izaya’s cheek, to weight the warmth of his lips against the angle of Izaya’s jaw as the other tips his head to the side to gasp for air. Izaya’s whole body is thrumming with heat, his toes are trying to curl against the floor, his thighs are shaking; he can feel his orgasm building with every movement Shizuo takes into him, can feel the promise of it threatening to swamp his awareness with every involuntary motion of his hips to grind against Shizuo pressing against him. “ _Please_ , Izaya.”

“Yes,” Izaya gasps. “Yes, Shizuo, I’ll tell you next time, I will.”

Shizuo huffs a breath against Izaya’s neck. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Izaya says, and clutches a handful of Shizuo’s hair, fisting his fingers in the strands as if to fight off the force of his orgasm threatening to break and swamp him. “Shizuo,  _please_ ” but Shizuo is already moving, is already sliding his fingers back and out of Izaya’s body as if the other’s words were a signal. Izaya groans at the loss, feeling his body clenching on nothing at the loss of that pressure inside him; but Shizuo is catching at his leg without hesitating, lifting to raise Izaya’s foot off the floor and urge his thighs open as fast as he can press himself in and against the other. Izaya follows Shizuo’s guidance without hesitation, catching his leg around Shizuo’s hip and curling his fingers in to brace the other’s cock in place as Shizuo pushes him higher against the support of the wall and rocks in closer; and then Shizuo’s hips buck forward, and Izaya lets his hold go slack, and the slick head of the other’s cock meets the wet heat of his own entrance as Shizuo thrusts up and into him in a single smooth motion.

Izaya doesn’t think about the sound he makes. It just spills from him, as easily as the heat of Shizuo’s movement spills into his veins, as easily as the breaking wave of Shizuo’s strength crashed over the mob of attackers he faced down. This is just as certain, just as unavoidable; but where Shizuo’s hands before were pressed to fists they’re now open against Izaya’s body, where his strength was before carrying the weight of a blow it’s now steadying, gentle even as his hold braces Izaya in place against him, as the grip of his hands locks the other to stillness while his cock slides up to fit deep into the tension of Izaya’s body before him. Izaya moans with the feel of it, with the familiar friction dragging inside him and the hold of Shizuo’s fingers steady against his thigh and at the small of his back; and against the side of his neck Shizuo groans relief, gusting an exhale far in the back of his throat that turns itself to heat as quickly as they come together. His hips press flush to Izaya’s, their bodies settle together into a fit as graceful and familiar as the shared pant of their breathing; and Shizuo pauses there, hesitating for a moment like he’s savouring that first moment of entire connection.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Shizuo says without lifting his head from where he’s pressing close against Izaya’s neck. The words hum over Izaya’s skin, so close he can feel the vibration of Shizuo’s lips just against the thud of his overheated pulse in his throat; the sensation makes him shudder, it ripples through the tension in him like the hum of a bell ringing with sound. Shizuo’s hand at his thigh shifts, Shizuo’s hips tip up and forward; inside him there’s the drag of movement as Shizuo’s cock shifts, grinding in against him like the other is seeking greater closeness even than what they already have. “I was worried about you, you know.”

“Fuck,” Izaya breathes. His fingers are knotting in Shizuo’s hair, his free arm is up to clutch around the other’s neck;  he’s still humming with tension, his whole body vibrating at the very cusp of orgasm, but Shizuo is barely moving, and each tiny shift of his hips stirs a fraction more heat into the wave Izaya can feel forming for him, rising on the horizon of his awareness into ever-increasing clarity. “I was--” and then his fingers touch a tear at Shizuo’s shirt, his fingers slide over a smear of half-dried blood against the other’s skin. Shizuo doesn’t even flinch -- Izaya’s not sure he so much as feels the pressure -- but Izaya’s shoulders tense, Izaya’s fingers tighten to hold hard against this proof of the other’s past-tense danger.

“I was scared,” he blurts, letting the words free in a rush of sincerity as Shizuo rocks in against him, grinding against Izaya’s body like he’s trying to settle deeper without pulling back, like he’s trying to win impossible closeness from the other against him. “I thought they were going to find you, I thought they were going to hurt you, I thought--” and another breaking, another giving way of the words at his lips into the heat spilling up his throat as Shizuo’s cock moves inside him, the minimal friction somehow more intimate than more would be, the more erotic for how close it keeps them. Izaya’s fingers close at Shizuo’s sleeve, his head comes forward to press against Shizuo’s shoulder; he feels like his whole body is trembling in response to the other’s actions, like the heat in his veins is answering the rhythm of Shizuo’s heartbeat more than his own. “I thought they were going to take you from me.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo groans, and there’s texture on his voice, heat and frustration and arousal all together, blending and bleeding into his throat as he answers with the other’s name. His hand tightens against Izaya’s thigh, his palm urges the other flush against him; the action pulls against the heat of Shizuo sheathed in Izaya’s body and pins the aching heat of Izaya’s cock between his own stomach and the straining tension of Shizuo’s. Shizuo’s fingers tighten against Izaya’s back, pressing like he’s trying to dig bruises into the other’s skin, like he intends to find handholds against Izaya’s body to brace them together. “No one’s going to take me away from you.” He huffs an exhale against Izaya’s hair, the rush of it almost a laugh as he rocks his hips in closer. “Especially not some...possessed knife, or whatever.”

Izaya laughs at that; except the spill of sound from his lips turns over on the friction inside him, breaking apart on the feel of Shizuo moving into him to turn into a moan instead, something desperate and straining as his cock aches between their bodies, dragging harder between them with every beat of his heart swelling it thicker and hotter with arousal. Shizuo’s breathing harder, panting for air against the side of Izaya’s neck and in against the back of the other’s ear; but Izaya’s been hard since Shizuo threw his first gold-lit punch, and tense with anticipation since the slick thrust of Shizuo’s fingers started working up into him, and it’s not a matter so much of reaching for orgasm as letting his resistance go and capitulating to it. Shizuo’s hands are against him, Shizuo’s body is pinning his arousal back against his stomach as surely as he’s holding Izaya in place against the wall behind him; and then Shizuo’s hips rock in against him, and Shizuo’s cock shifts to bear down against the inside of Izaya’s body, and inevitability breaks over Izaya in the span between one breath and the next. He has time to seize around Shizuo’s neck, to turn his head sideways to gasp for air against the other’s throat; and then he’s moaning, he’s jerking, he’s coming in a rush between his shirt and the trailing hem of Shizuo’s. Shizuo groans, the sound so low and appreciative Izaya can feel the vibration of it run straight down his spine; but Izaya can’t answer, not when his mouth is open on unvoiced pleasure as his whole body spasms into heat around Shizuo inside him, as every part of him tenses with the wave of heat that crashes and breaks on Shizuo’s hands holding him still, on Shizuo’s body pinning him back, on Shizuo’s cock settled far within him. Izaya’s quivering with it, his vision hazing and his body shuddering with helpless reflex as he comes; and then Shizuo’s hand at his thigh seizes, and Shizuo’s throat tightens over a groan, and he follows Izaya into orgasm, spilling heat into the other like the tremor of Izaya’s pleasure has urged free his own. Izaya’s shaky in Shizuo’s hold, the aftershocks of his own release running up alongside the pleasure of feeling Shizuo’s against him; but Shizuo’s hold doesn’t waver, Shizuo’s grip doesn’t so much as tremble. He’s solid, a fixed point, unwavering and unhesitating; and for the first long heartbeat after, Izaya thinks that might be as much a part of his pleasure as the physical sensation rippling through the whole of his body.

They ease apart slowly, some time after they’ve caught back the beginnings of a rhythm to their breathing again. Shizuo braces his hold on Izaya’s thigh, steadying the other against his motion as he eases back to slide free of Izaya’s body; Izaya holds onto Shizuo’s shoulder, ducking his head down to hide his face in shadow as he gasps through the almost-relief, almost-loss of Shizuo drawing back and out of him. The absence is only momentary; no sooner is Shizuo free than he’s letting Izaya’s foot lower to the ground again and reaching up instead to curl his fingers into the dark of the other’s hair as he steps back in to push Izaya gently against the wall behind him once more. Izaya lets himself be urged, lets himself go slack to the force of Shizuo’s hold and the resistance of the wall at his back, and when Shizuo sighs against his hair it’s Izaya whose fingers tighten against the back of the other’s shirt, Izaya who pulls to urge Shizuo in closer against him. Shizuo obeys, leaning in to pin Izaya in place between his shoulder and the wall, and Izaya shuts his eyes, and takes a breath, and lets the heat of Shizuo’s body against his fill him with all the comfort of companionship.  
“Don’t forget,” Shizuo says without lifting his mouth from where it’s resting just at the back of Izaya’s ear. Izaya can feel the hum of the words vibrating against the span of Shizuo’s chest pressed against his own. “You promised to tell me, next time.”

Izaya turns his head under the hold of Shizuo’s hand, tipping his chin so he can press against the heat of Shizuo’s neck. His mouth finds skin, his lips drag just over the line of Shizuo’s half-done collar; he can feel the way Shizuo tenses at the friction, can hear the huff of the other’s breathing as Izaya’s lips drag ticklish sensation over sensitive skin.

“I remember,” he says against Shizuo’s skin. “Next time I will, senpai.” And he ducks his head in closer, and tightens his mouth at Shizuo’s neck, and prints the words in place with the pressure of a kiss.

He should have known from the start, Izaya thinks through the haze of satisfied heat suffusing his body. Everything is always better when he has Shizuo with him.


	18. Breathe

_Good morning everyone_ , Izaya types into the text field for the chatroom.  _We don’t have any additional unannounced visitors today, do we?_

 _i’m sorry_ a familiar red icon flashes at once. Izaya wonders sometimes if Saika doesn’t have an apology ready-typed to offer at the least suggestion of judgment from anyone in the chat.  _i didn’t mean to cause so much trouble_

 _It’s no problem at all!_  Tanaka Taro offers at once, with the effusive reassurance they are just as quick to offer as Saika is to apologize.  _Really, Kanra just teases everyone like that._

_oh. sorry_

_You really don’t have to apologize_ , Setton chimes in.

 _Is that a no then?_  Izaya asks.  _Should we take roll call just to be sure?_

A hand reaches out over Izaya’s shoulder to touch a fingertip just against the edge of his phone, where Saika’s constant stream of apologies is flashing into existence. “I thought you said the troll was gone.”

“They are,” Izaya says with blithe unconcern, without so much as shifting where he’s reclining against Shizuo sitting on the couch behind him. “That’s the person who took over after your little display in the park.” He types in a response to something Tanaka Taro has said without really thinking about it and hits  _Send_  to post it to the chat. “We really ought to thank her. Maybe send a fruit basket and a thank-you card, or something.”

Shizuo huffs something a little bit amusement and a little bit confusion and lets his hand fall from Izaya’s phone to replace around the other’s waist where it was before. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “There wasn’t anyone else there but you at that fight.”

“I know,” Izaya says. “It wasn’t a matter of physical presence.” He’s still typing with both thumbs against the screen of his phone but the banter is light and meaningless, the textual equivalent of small talk; it requires almost no thought at all to keep up a running stream of chatter. “She’s what broke the possession over that whole mob.”

“Broke it,” Shizuo repeats. “How? What did she do?”

“Something to the original controller,” Izaya says. “I’m not entirely clear on that point just yet, unfortunately. No one who was involved in the group has any memory of what happened, or if they do they’re not talking about it, which amounts to the same thing as far as gaining information goes.” He types another response and sends it without reading back over it. “But our girl Saika here got attacked that same night, at the same time you and I were in that park. She came out fine, not so much as a scratch on her; but someone had reason to go after her, even while you were drawing every red-eyed zombie in the city to you. Given how emphatic they all were about having their way with you, I think it’s safe to assume the one with enough free will to go in another direction was the controller, or at least the leader on some level.”

“They weren’t zombies,” Shizuo protests, but this is a familiar argument, and the words lack force. “I thought you said the victims weren’t talking about what happened in those attacks.”

“They aren’t,” Izaya agrees. “And she didn’t tell me.” He sends another reply, a quick flurry of words that spans a pair of lines in the chatroom and draws another  _sorry_  from Saika. “That would be Mikado who volunteered that. He’s pretty concerned about the attack on one of his friends and wanted to find out if I knew anything else about the cause.”

 _Everything has been pretty crazy recently_ , Tanaka Taro says.  _One of the teachers at our school just disappeared last week._

 _me too_ , Saika puts in.  _he’d been around for years before now_

 _What a coincidence!_   _Unless...do you go to Raira Academy too, Saika?_

_ah. yes. sorry_

_Really, you don’t need to apologize for everything._

“You  _could_  have told me sooner,” Shizuo reminds him. “And we could have dealt with everything right off the bat.”

“You don’t know that,” Izaya says. “Maybe there weren’t enough to form a spontaneous mob like that until enough time had passed, did you think of that?”

Shizuo makes a pained sound. “There were so  _many_  of them. Were they really all victims of those attacks?”

“As far as I can tell,” Izaya says.  _Aww, maybe you two are classmates and don’t even know it! The anonymity of the internet is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?_  “A lot of them went unreported, anyway. Anything that wasn’t serious enough to merit a hospital stay didn’t make it into the news, and I suspect a scratch would be enough to affect most people.” He tips his head up, giving over his attention to the chatroom so he can flash a grin at Shizuo. “Anyone without superhuman vitality, in any case.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, and lifts his hand from around Izaya’s waist to rumple the other’s hair and push his focus away. Izaya lets his smirk pull wider and submits to the force to look back down at his phone screen. “Maybe they just weren’t contagious when they were attacking me or something.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Izaya says, with the words falling lightly now from much repetition over the last handful of days. “They told you themselves, they were planning to make you one of them and make love to you until they used up even  _your_  strength.”

“Maybe I should have let them,” Shizuo says against Izaya’s hair. “It might have been a vacation compared to what you usually put me through.” Izaya grins at that but doesn’t look up from the screen of his phone; Saika is apologizing again, having cycled back around to the supposed hack that resulted in the chatroom closing down for the week.

 _It could happen to anyone,_  Izaya soothes, typing fast so he can outpace the hesitant speed of the other’s posts.  _Just let me know if you have any problems like that again, I know a guy who can help with all kinds of things. He’s pretty well-known in town, for those working in a certain sphere of influence._

“I can’t believe you’re bragging about yourself secondhand,” Shizuo comments. “Why don’t you just admit it’s you you’re talking about? It would save you the trouble of all these different usernames.”

“You don’t understand, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says. “Where’s the fun in just admitting it outright? It’s not the internet if everyone knows who you are.”

“You know who everyone  _else_  is.”

“I do,” Izaya tells him. “I am an informant, after all. It is very literally my job to know things.” There’s a hum of sound from the table alongside their couch, the rhythm of a notification so familiar Izaya doesn’t even have to look to identify it. He lifts his hand from the edge of his phone and sideways without turning away as he reaches for the source. “For example, I am informing you right now that your phone is ringing.”

“Thanks,” Shizuo deadpans, and lifts his hand to take the phone from Izaya. “What are you going to charge me for that, o famous informant?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Izaya declares. “I’ll just hold it as a favor for now and make use of it when the time is right.”

Shizuo laughs. “And what, I just have to hover around until you decide to call it in?”

“That’s right,” Izaya says. “Answer your phone, Shizu-chan, it might be important.” Shizuo huffs into his hair and tightens his arm around Izaya’s waist to settle them in closer together; Izaya lets himself be urged, leaning back to rest his weight solidly against Shizuo’s chest as the other lifts his phone to his ear to answer.

“Hello?” Shizuo says against the receiver; and in the chatroom Setton speaks up to cut off Izaya’s generous offer of support to anyone who might be in need of it.  _I don’t know that it’s a good idea to get involved in that kind of thing. It’s hard to get back out of it once you start interacting with people like that._

 _Spoken like someone who knows_ , Izaya teases.  _Are you an assassin in your day job, Setton? Do you disappear bodies for the yakuza or something?_

 _No! Nothing like that_ , Setton responds.  _I just mean the city can be dangerous. People should be careful or they’ll get hurt, especially with things the way they are right now._

 _You mean like the slasher?_  Tanaka Taro asks.

 _Not just that_ , Setton says.  _I was out at the park the other day and saw a group all wearing yellow scarves, like the old days._

 _i don’t understand,_  Saika manages.  _what’s the matter with yellow_

Izaya frowns.  _It’s from an old gang,_  he types. Over his shoulder Shizuo is still speaking into his phone: “Yeah, everything’s fine. I heard your friend might have gotten caught in the edge of it. Are you okay too?” Izaya braces his phone in his hands and types out a response, his mind only half-on what he’s saying in response to Saika.  _It’s a sign of this old gang from a while back. There were a whole bunch of them wandering around town, it seemed like they were going to take over the city for a few months._

 _What happened?_  That’s Tanaka Taro again, with the immediate interest they always show when a new detail of the city comes up.  _I’ve never heard of them_.

 _You wouldn’t have_ , Izaya responds.  _You’re new to the city still, aren’t you? They disbanded, there hasn’t been anyone in the Yellow Scarves for ages. Maybe Setton should get their eyes checked to make sure they’re not seeing things._

 _I’m not imagining anything_ , Setton protests.  _There were over a half-dozen of them all together with those scarves, I know what I saw._

“Not this time,” Shizuo says into the phone, with something of an edge to his tone. “He really didn’t have anything to do with it.” A pause. “Absolutely sure. He was as unhappy about it as anyone else.”

“I really didn’t,” Izaya says, loud so the words will carry at least in part to whomever Shizuo is speaking to. “What are you talking about, Shizu-chan?”  _Maybe it’s just a new group of middle schoolers who decided to follow the example of their senpai._

 _No way_ , Setton replies at once.  _These were older guys, out of high school for sure. They were a lot older than anyone who used to be in the group_.

“Listen,” Shizuo growls against the phone, with the start of true irritation on his voice. “You can believe whatever you want, but I’m telling you Izaya had nothing to do with that. If you’re looking for someone to blame, you’ll have to try someone else.”

“Who are you talking to?” Izaya asks, looking up from his phone entirely to frown at Shizuo. “Are you talking about the Saikas?” Shizuo meets his gaze but doesn’t answer directly; he tips his head instead, clearing his throat hard to cut off the murmur of sharp-edged speech Izaya can just make out from the receiver at his ear.

“I’m not going to talk to you about this,” he says firmly, the words absolute in their certainty. “If you want to keep going you can talk to him yourself.” And he’s lifting the phone away to offer to Izaya instead. Izaya reaches up to take it at once, only sparing a glance at the screen for the name of the caller before he brings it to his ear to chirp a greeting into the microphone. “Masaomi-kun! It’s been a while, how are things?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Masaomi tells him with brutal efficiency. “ _Put Shizuo back on, I don’t want to talk to you_.”

“He’s not in the mood,” Izaya says at once. “I wonder whose fault that could be?” Masaomi hisses on the other end of the line and Izaya grins at the minor satisfaction of this hit as he shifts into a more comfortable angle against Shizuo’s chest. “You can talk to me or to no one, it’s your choice.”

“ _There’s no point talking to you_ ,” Masaomi growls against the phone. “ _You’ll just lie about everything anyway._ ”

“I will not,” Izaya says. “Despite your unjustified opinion of me, I’m really not the fiend of deception you seem to think I am. What point would there even be to me lying to you?”

“ _Yeah right_ ,” Masaomi snaps. “ _You’ll just try to claim you had nothing to do with half the city getting attacked._ ”

“I didn’t,” Izaya says at once; and then, fast, before Masaomi hangs up on him: “I knew it was happening, of course. I  _was_  trying to stop it, believe it or not.”

The sound Masaomi makes on the phone is one of deep skepticism. “ _Right, as if you don’t live for chaos_.”

“Only chaos that I’m in control of,” Izaya says. “There’s no way I would deliberately engineer a full-scale attack on Shizuo, anyway.”

“ _Shizuo got attacked?_ ” Masaomi gasps, and Izaya grimaces at this accidental offering of information. “ _He didn’t say anything about that. Is he okay?_ ”

“Fine,” Izaya says shortly. “He’s not the only one, anyway, didn’t your girlfriend get jumped too?”

“ _Anri’s not my girlfriend_ ,” Masaomi says, so quickly Izaya’s eyebrows raise. “ _We’re just friends_.”

“You sound a little defensive,” Izaya hums. “Whyever would that be? Didn’t you and Saki break up ages ago?” Masaomi huffs a breath dismissive enough that Izaya drops that possibility and switches over to the other. “Or is it Mikado that you don’t want to interfere with?”

“ _You stay away from Mikado_ ,” Masaomi snaps, faster even than the first statement and with a desperate edge that Izaya can recognize with all the clarity of nostalgia, as if he’s hearing his younger self speaking Shizuo’s name to some overinterested gang leader. “ _He’s got nothing to do with any of this, you just leave him alone._ ”

“Ahh,” Izaya breathes. “Is that how it is?” His gaze slides down to the screen of his own phone in his hand, where Tanaka Taro is trying to press Setton for more information about the Yellow Scarves of old. “That certainly does complicate things.”

“ _What_ ,” Masaomi says, and his voice is restrained, now, it’s as if Izaya can see him drawing back physically from the edge of the conversation. “ _What are you talking about, there’s nothing_ complicated _. Mikado’s a good kid, I don’t want you to do to him what you did to me_.”

“Of course,” Izaya says. “A noble goal, to protect a friend.” He lifts his gaze from his phone and tips his head up to look at the ceiling overhead instead. “Is that why you’re starting your gang back up? To keep your friends safe from the horrors of the city?”

There’s a moment of absolute silence on the other end of the phone. Izaya can feel Shizuo’s eyes on him, can feel the weight of the other’s frown against his skin like a touch; but his attention is fixed on the phone pressing to his ear and the static-burdened silence that speaks more clearly for Masaomi than an hour of insufficient explanation would. Izaya lets the quiet linger, lets the pressure mount in the words that go unspoken; and finally Masaomi takes a breath, and Izaya can hear the force of determination on the sound even before he speaks.

“ _I don’t have to tell you anything_ ,” Masaomi says, and his voice is like ice, his tone so distant Izaya barely recognizes it. “ _What I do with my life is none of your business_.”

“You should be careful,” Izaya says with perfect calm on his tone. “You want to keep your friends safe but you might just end up pulling them down into the shadows with you.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Masaomi says, still without any of his usual heat on the words. “ _You just stay away from all of us. I’ll worry about the rest of it myself_.”

Izaya huffs a breath. “Masaomi-kun--”

“ _I’m done talking to you_ ,” Masaomi says; and then the line clicks, and the receiver goes dead, and Izaya is left to huff frustration that goes unheard, at least by Masaomi. He pulls the phone away from his ear to scowl at the screen, even with nothing there to see but the dark of the glass reflecting his own image back at him.

Shizuo clears his throat behind him. “That bad?”

“Isn’t it always?” Izaya asks, and offers the phone up over his shoulder for Shizuo to claim. “You know how he is, he’s convinced I’m the antichrist with a personal vendetta to ruin his life.” Shizuo takes the phone and tips sideways to set it against the edge of the coffee table again and Izaya slides down by an inch on the couch to slouch into greater comfort against Shizuo behind him. “He’s going to get himself into more trouble alone than I would ever lead him into.”

“And his friends?” Shizuo asks. He reaches out to touch against the screen of Izaya’s phone, where the colored icon for Tanaka Taro is blinking with the ellipsis of an in-progress message. “That’s one of them, right?”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, and scrolls up with his thumb to gesture to another, the too-familiar red icon in front of one of those nervous apologies. “And the other.”

“They’re both in your chatroom?” Shizuo asks, letting his hand fall to catch around Izaya’s waist again to brace them together. “Does Kida know?”

“I think there’s a lot of things Kida doesn’t know,” Izaya says. “The problem is he doesn’t seem to think he needs to hear them.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to know,” Shizuo suggests. “Blissful ignorance, right?”

“Sure,” Izaya says, and scrolls back down through the chatroom to the latest response. “It’s all delightful right up until someone gets stabbed.”

Shizuo huffs a startled almost-laugh. “That’s a little dramatic. Aren’t they all in high school?”

“So were we,” Izaya tells him. “Youth didn’t keep Saki safe.” He types one-handed into the chatroom to shift the subject away from the Yellow Scarves and towards a new episode of Setton’s favorite television show with as much grace as he can muster. “It’s hard to claim childish innocence when you’re leading the return of a gang.”

Shizuo’s hold on Izaya tightens, his head ducks in. When he huffs a breath Izaya can feel the shift of it ruffle through his hair. “Do you really think he’s bringing back the Yellow Scarves?”

Izaya lifts a shoulder in a shrug as casual as he can manage without dislodging Shizuo from where the other is leaning in against him. “It sounds like someone is, at least,” he says; and then he types a last message into the chatroom and reaches to toss his phone onto the table without watching to see his signoff post to the screen. He twists as part of the same action, pivoting in against Shizuo behind him as he reaches to brace a hand at the edge of the couch so he can turn in to face the other; Shizuo lets his hold loosen accordingly, easing his grip so Izaya can turn himself around until he’s lying on top of Shizuo instead of leaning against him. Izaya lets the edge of the couch go and brings his arm up instead, weighting his forearm across Shizuo’s chest so he can rest his chin against the support and reach up to feather his fingers into the fall of Shizuo’s hair against his forehead. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll keep an eye on it and we’ll nip it in the bud if it starts to look like a problem.”

Shizuo huffs amusement. “It’s not yet?”

Izaya smiles and shakes his head. “When there’s a mob beating down our door we can worry about it.” He lets his hand slide up and around Shizuo’s ear, tracing the fall of the other’s hair until he can brace his fingers at the back of Shizuo’s neck. “I’ll tell you if that’s on the way. I  _did_  promise, after all.”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums. His hand against Izaya’s back shifts, his hold settling a little farther down the curve of the other’s spine; under his touch Izaya’s shirt slides up by a half-inch, baring a tiny strip of skin for the press of Shizuo’s little finger. “So there’s no crisis right now?”

“Nope,” Izaya says. “Everything is as peaceful as it can be.” He pauses to let this sink in before he lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “As it ever is in Ikebukuro, at least.”

Izaya can feel Shizuo’s laugh rumble against his chest as clearly as he can see the bright of it sparkle in the other’s eyes. “We have a holiday, then,” he says. His hand against Izaya’s back shifts, just slightly; Izaya’s shirt slides up by another half-inch. “How shall we celebrate?”

“I have a few ideas,” Izaya says; and then he pulls against the support of Shizuo’s shoulder, and lets Shizuo’s hand urge him up, and their lips are coming together before he’s even lifted his other hand to curl in against the back of Shizuo’s head to brace them together.

Neither of them reaches to silence their phones; but the city takes mercy on them, and there’s no electronic interruption to the shared heat of their breathing.


	19. Stirrings

“So.” Shiki leans in from the chair he’s sitting in, rocking forward so he can press his forearms against his legs and fold his hands before him like he’s clasping something valuable between them. It’s almost a fatherly position, something vaguely reminiscent of a concerned teacher or a well-intentioned boss; Izaya thinks it might even be convincing as such, if it weren’t for the ice-cold calculation in the dark of the other’s eyes on him. He hardly minds; left his own choice, he thinks he’d prefer the calculation in any case. “You just want to know what we know about this guy?”

“That’s right,” Izaya says, kicking back into his own chair and crossing his legs to make a show of his present comfort. It  _is_  a show -- the chair is less than perfectly comfortable, even if he were foolish enough to let his guard down -- and he knows Shiki knows it as such, but that doesn’t mean appearances aren’t worth some effort to maintain. “Just any tidbits you might have picked up. People he’s spent time with, or who might have a grudge against him. Even street gossip would be of some interest.”

“We both know you have a far better grasp of the city gossip than I do,” Shiki says without so much as blinking. “That is the foundation of our working relationship, after all.”

“In general, certainly,” Izaya agrees. “In the interests of being thorough, I thought it best to check on this one specifically as well.” He rests one elbow on the arm of his chair and lifts his hand to support his head as he tips to the side. “No information on this rogue teacher, then?”

Shiki shrugs. “Nothing beyond the ordinary,” he says. “He had aspirations for crime a while back and nearly got himself caught up in some insurance fraud.” His tone makes this sound like a child’s game, as if he’s describing a toddler kicking over a sandcastle in an attempt to win his mother’s attention. “Luckily for him he was dissuaded from that before we had to step in.”

Izaya huffs a laugh. “I doubt he considers that much of a victory.”

“I doubt it as well,” Shiki agrees. “His opinion is irrelevant to the facts, however.” The shadows in his gaze make a clear indication of what those facts are; Izaya wonders idly what would happen to an irresponsible high school teacher who let himself fall in with the Awakusu-kai. It’s an entertaining thought, in its own way; but he’s more interested in what Nasujima  _did_  do, rather than in the fate he narrowly escaped. “The reality is that he has had very little to do with us at all.”

Izaya hums in the back of his throat. “I understand his taste in romantic partners runs down less-than-wholesome paths,” he suggests. “Do you know anything about that scandal he was caught in a year back or so?”

Shiki straightens from his forward lean. “We keep out of that kind of thing,” he says, his voice as cold and clinical as the crisp edges of his white suit. “You ought to know that yourself.”

“Yeah,” Izaya says. “Akabayashi would have your head for that, huh?”

Shiki’s chin comes up fractionally. “I wouldn’t put it in that way,” he says, with guarded pride. “Still. He’s a valuable member of the group and it is to everyone’s benefit that he remains as he is.”

“Of course,” Izaya says, and lifts both hands palm-up in a gesture of innocence. “I meant no offense. I’m hardly scintillated with the guy’s strategy myself. At the least he should have been the one to leave the school, not the girl.”

Shiki makes a noise in the back of his throat; more considering than agreement, if Izaya had to put a tone to it. He’s still gazing at Izaya with as much complete focus as if the cluster of men around him exist no more than Shizuo hovering just over the shoulder of Izaya’s own chair. “I see,” Shiki says; and then he leans back in his chair, reclining against the support as if the tension in him is giving way with the resolution of some mystery. “So it’s her you’re interested in.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Izaya allows. “Secondhand interest, let’s say. She had something of a run-in with a young lady of my acquaintance; a friend of a friend. I want to make sure there won’t be further incidents as discretely as possible. We are talking about young women, after all. They’re such delicate creatures.”

“I don’t know why you waste time dancing around the subject,” Shiki tells him. “We both know by now how these conversations are going to turn out.”

Izaya spreads his hands to his sides and shrugs without letting his smile ease from his lips. “Forgive me the indulgence,” he says. “It’s so rare I have the pleasure of a real conversation.”

“Save the flattery for the bartender,” Shiki says. “No, we know nothing more about the Niekawa girl than what you’ve already collected. There’s a connection between her and Nasujima, but that’s more likely to give you a point on him than on her. As far as we can tell she’s just an ordinary high school girl with a little bit of scandal on her for spice.”

“As far as you can tell,” Izaya repeats, agreeing and teasing at one and the same time. He braces his hands at the arms of his chair and pushes himself to upright, turning the motion into a bow at the same time he rises. “Maybe you’re right about that.”

“You’ll tell us,” Shiki says, his voice cool and clear. It’s not a question. “When you find out otherwise.”

“Of course,” Izaya says, lilting the words to the very edge of a taunt. “Aren’t we friends, Shiki-san?”

“Of course.” Shiki’s tone makes the words sarcastic, gives them a bite and heft that tugs the corner of Izaya’s mouth onto a smile he has to struggle to bite back.

“So glad to hear it,” Izaya purrs, and lifts his hand to his forehead in a brief salute as he steps sideways and starts to turn back to collect Shizuo. “Until next time, then.”

He’s moving forward as Shizuo’s shoulders ease from the tension the other always carries in these conversations, reaching out to catch Shizuo’s hand in his and lead them out of the building. Izaya’s thoughts are already on their way home, forming a path for he and Shizuo to wander down as they return through familiar streets to the more-familiar space of their apartment and the comfort within. He’s setting Nasujima aside, is letting even his humming curiosity about Niekawa Haruna go in anticipation of a lazy afternoon, of the lunch he can persuade Shizuo to make for him; and then, from the chair behind him, Shiki clears his throat and Izaya’s attention jolts back to the present all at once.

Izaya looks back. His fingers are tangled with Shizuo’s, his shoulders are turning towards the door; but Shiki is still looking at him, still fixing them both with that unreadable gaze, and Izaya can feel all his focus coming back to the present without any thought on his part, can feel himself dropping into a more balanced stance without even needing to think through the possibility of combat. Shiki is unlikely to attack them, that would be a betrayal far beyond the almost-honorable Awakusu-kai’s goals and one that would earn them nothing at all as a result; but Shizuo’s hand is tightening on Izaya’s too, his instincts flaring as clearly as Izaya’s, and Izaya has no doubt at all that if there is some kind of conflict on the way Shizuo is prepared to shove him back and take the lead into the fray himself.

“I don’t have any news for you on this high school girl,” Shiki reiterates. “But we  _have_  been hearing other rumors that are running around the city. I’m sure you’ve heard about the resurrection of the Yellow Scarves?”

Izaya snorts and lets his hold on Shizuo’s hand ease. After a moment the tension in Shizuo’s arm gives way fractionally, following the lead of Izaya’s growing relaxation, though it doesn’t entirely dissipate. “The Yellow Scarves?” he repeats without bothering to hold back the amusement bleeding through into his voice. “I would have thought the Awakusu-kai would be above worrying over a group of middle schoolers calling themselves a gang.”

“We don’t care about children,” Shiki agrees. “But this is starting to become something more than that.”

Izaya scoffs. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “I think we can handle a few students. Even the old gang members can’t be more than high schoolers at this point. I’d take Shizuo in a fight over an entire schoolyard, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s not your bodyguard’s strength that concerns me,” Shiki says. There’s no tension in his face, no sign of irritation at Izaya’s teasing; he’s as impervious to that as ever, it seems. Izaya never fails to be impressed by that; Shiki’s mask is always perfectly unreadable, even in the most trying of times. “It’s the return of another gang into the power dynamics of the city. You’ve heard nothing to alarm you on the subject?”

Izaya waves away this concern with his free hand. “I’ve heard,” he says, dismissing the idea as easily as he sweeps aside Shiki’s words. “They’re just kids, Shiki-san. Whoever’s been telling you anything else is playing you for a fool. I wouldn’t expect you to put up with that kind of thing.”

“We don’t,” Shiki agrees. It’s an end to the conversation, a conclusion of the dialogue without really giving any details at all; Izaya huffs and lets his hand fall so he can slide it back into his pocket. “I’m passing on the most reliable information available to us. As a friend.” His chin comes up, his eyes slide towards shadow. “You might want to keep yourself out of the way of this one, informant.”

Izaya hesitates for a moment, wondering if he can ask for more, if he’s likely to gain any more information for the questioning; but Shiki’s expression is flat, as distant as if Izaya is out of the building already, and Izaya knows well enough that whatever details the other is willing to share have already been stated. “Fine,” he says, and ducks his head into a nod. “We’ll keep it in mind. Thanks for the tip.”

“Of course,” Shiki says. “The Awakusu-kai have a vested interest in maintaining our sources of information.”

“I’m flattered by your concern,” Izaya says. “Same time next week?” Shiki tips his head to the side, the closest thing to a nod he’s likely to give, and Izaya flashes a grin in response. “See you then, assuming we don’t get murdered by middle schoolers. Come on, Shizuo.”

There’s no resistance to them leaving; there never is, when they’re working with the Awakusu-kai. Even the strain Shizuo used to bear with him like a weapon weighting across his shoulders has given way over the last years; the only trace of it yet remaining is in the grip he maintains on Izaya’s hand, and the way he clings a little closer than usual to the other as they make their way down the corridors towards the front entrance designed to look very much like a back door. The men standing there nod recognition, and one of them reaches to open the door to let them out, and Izaya takes the lead out into the bright of the midday sun, squinting against the burn of the light against eyes adjusted to the dim of the interior they’ve just left.

Shizuo waits until the door has swung shut behind them before he speaks. “That was foreboding,” he says without any kind of preamble.

“It was,” Izaya agrees. He looks back towards the door; but of course there’s nothing to see, just the unadorned flat of a metal door latched solidly into its frame. The most remarkable thing about the scene is himself and Shizuo standing still in an otherwise empty alley; there’s no indication that the door in front of them is anything other than the staff entrance to some restaurant that it appears to be. He slides his hand farther into his pocket to catch his fingers against the weight of his phone and toy with the weight of it. “I wonder what he’s heard that he’s not telling us.”

“You think he knows something else?” Shizuo asks.

“I know he does,” Izaya says without looking up to see the other’s attention fixed on him. “He’s not the type to jump at shadows. Whoever is trying to stir up the Yellow Scarves again is meddling with something big enough to draw the attention of the Awakusu-kai on them.”

Shizuo’s fingers tighten on Izaya’s hand. “You think Kida’s involved?”

Izaya hesitates. It would be nice to lie, to brush aside Shizuo’s concern as absurd or to claim the awareness of far more information than he has; but Masaomi’s been entirely unresponsive, to calls or texts or emails alike, and there’s only so many leading conversations Izaya can start about childhood friends in the chatroom without tipping off Tanaka Taro into some kind of suspicion, however unformed it may be. He tightens his hand on the phone in his pocket; and then lets it go, giving the weight freedom to slide loose of his fingers and rest in the soft of his pocket once more.

“I don’t know,” he admits. The words feel strange on his tongue; unfamiliar, like he’s never spoken them before. “I’ll keep an eye on it, though. If he’s gotten himself into trouble we’ll get him right back out again.”

Shizuo huffs something like a laugh from alongside him. “That’s right,” he agrees, without even hesitating over the words; and then he takes a step sideways, tipping closer to bump his shoulder hard against Izaya’s next to him. “We’ll take care of things.”

He’s only offering agreement to the words Izaya spoke himself. Reasonably they shouldn’t be particularly encouraging, or at least no more so than the sound of Izaya’s own voice in his ears. But there’s a solidity to Shizuo’s tone, a certainty as absolute as the strength of that shoulder pressing to Izaya’s own, and when Izaya lifts his head up to smile at Shizuo he doesn’t have to struggle for the expression at all.

“That’s right,” he says. “Between us we can handle anything.”

He can taste the comfort of the words like truth on his lips.


	20. Erratic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shifting posting schedule temporarily to accommodate an extra fic, so this chapter is a day early! Enjoy :)

The conversation with Shiki proves less than illuminating. Izaya can appreciate the goal of the statement -- it seems in good faith, at least, truly a comment intended to offer some measure of support to himself and Shizuo in the midst of one of the city’s semi-regular upheavals. But Izaya can’t get traction on any other information about the Yellow Scarves, from Kida or anyone else, and the murmurs that continue to circle around the chatroom and online forums alike prove fruitless. There are a few anonymous posters who claim to be part of the group, who brag about the ‘big plans’ that are underway to ‘take over the city’ and ‘get revenge for what’s been happening’; but when Izaya tracks them down they’re never anything more threatening than frightened high schoolers and, in one case, a precocious elementary-school student with too much time on his hands and unlimited access to his family’s home computer. None of them know anything, not really; if Izaya didn’t know better he would think the rumors to be nothing more than the idle whispers they seem, a ghost with no soul to validate its presence. But the whispers are too consistent for that, too regular and too everpresent; and then there’s the fact that Shiki heard about them, and Izaya’s never known the Awakusu-kai to be skittish about anything at all, least of all unsubstantiated rumors. Either someone is pulling a trick on the city as a whole, or there’s someone involved in the group that has far more experience with controlling rumors than Kida ever did that is limiting the flow of information to the trickle that is all Izaya can find. It’s frustrating, like an itch between his shoulderblades he can’t quite reach; if that were all he had to worry about, it would be more than enough to keep him up at night.

In actual fact, of course, the Yellow Scarves are an afterthought. Izaya would like to spend more time on them, for Kida’s sake if nothing else; but he has more important personal vendettas to see through, and a far more elusive target than the rumored group that continues to expand in the city’s awareness every day even though no one seems to be connected to it. That, of course, comes from the memory of glowing red eyes and dozens of people shuffling in around Shizuo; and whatever the Yellow Scarves may be cooking up, it’s the Saikas Izaya is most interested in. There’s some connection to Ryuugamine and Kida via the quiet girl who remains the only untouched almost-victim except for the inhuman Celty; but Izaya is certain she wasn’t responsible for that mob, however essential she may have proven in disbanding it, and it’s the mastermind of the attack that he’s interested in more than how it was overcome. He’ll investigate Sonohara Anri later, when he has the time and curiosity to spare for it; but right now he wants to find the girl Niekawa, or the missing teacher Nasujima as a secondhand connection, and pin down exactly how either or both of them are connected to that horde of humanity and chatroom accounts that so haunted his waking hours. But there’s nothing, no trace of either of them anywhere in the city; and that shows the marks of someone  _else_ , someone with enough skill in subterfuge to vanish all evidence of two people like they were never there at all, and that’s enough to grit Izaya’s teeth on frustration. There’s someone covering for the Yellow Scarves, and some kind of obfuscation over Niekawa and Nasujima; and he can’t even find enough to determine if they’re the same person or two different, equally irritating identities.

He knows he ought to take a break. He’s going in circles, working over the same corners of the internet with obsessive focus, as if the chatroom is likely to update while his back is turned or as if someone will offer up a novel’s worth of information all unprompted onto one of his forums. But he can’t stop checking, can’t stop returning over old ground in hopes of finding something new, of stirring up some new response; and it’s in the middle of one of these, some days after the meeting with the Awakusu-kai, that Shizuo strides forward and into the middle of the living room and makes his declaration.

“That’s it,” he says, speaking loudly enough that the words catch and hold Izaya’s attention in spite of the flicker of half-memorized text before him. “You’re going to take a break.”

Izaya frowns without looking up from the screen, even if his attention is wholly given over to the sound of Shizuo’s voice. “I will in a bit. Don’t nag, Shizu-chan.”

“You’ve been saying that for hours,” Shizuo says. Izaya can hear the sound of footsteps approaching, can feel the dull impact of them hum up the frame of the chair he’s curled into; he still doesn’t look up from the screen. “You can’t stay there forever.”

“I did yesterday,” Izaya reminds him. “And the day before.”

“You’re not proving your point,” Shizuo says. “When was the last time you slept?”

Izaya glances up to Shizuo standing in front of him and huffs a sigh as he frowns at the other. “Last night. You should know, you’re the one who pulled me away to bed.”

“That was Tuesday,” Shizuo tells him. “Morning. It’s Thursday evening.” He braces a hand against the far edge of Izaya’s desk and leans over against the support so he can reach and grab at the arm of Izaya’s chair; when he pushes it’s with enough force to dislodge Izaya’s hold on the edge of the desk and send the other turning to face the window behind him. “Have you seen the sun at all today?”

Izaya frowns at the window before him and reaches out to shove petulantly at Shizuo’s hold on the arm of the chair. This effort is less than perfectly effective in its goal. “It’s raining.”

“Which you only just noticed,” Shizuo tells him. The fact that this is true doesn’t make it any more pleasant to hear; Izaya hisses incoherent response and pushes harder against Shizuo’s unwavering hold. “You can take a break to eat something.”

“I’ve been eating,” Izaya complains. “I’ve eaten everything you brought for me.”

“Without ever looking up from your computer,” Shizuo says. “Or the screen of your phone. You haven’t even noticed me taking your dishes away.” He lets his hold on the arm of Izaya’s chair go, but it’s only to curl his fingers around the other’s arm instead and replace the brace of his hand with the urge of a pull. “Come on. I’m taking you to dinner and you’re leaving your phone at home.”

Izaya looks up through his lashes at Shizuo with an expression somewhere between irritation and interest. “Are you going to make me if I refuse?”

Shizuo looks right back at him without flinching. “Yes,” he says. “And if I have to carry you I’m going to put you straight to bed when we get back and go sleep on the couch myself.”

Izaya hisses. “You wouldn’t.” Shizuo raises an eyebrow and doesn’t look away, even when Izaya continues holding his gaze. Finally Izaya huffs an exhale and pulls hard against Shizuo’s hold on his arm. “Are you going to at least let me put my phone down first?” Shizuo lets his hold go, although he doesn’t step back, and Izaya twists back around towards the desk as he pulls his phone from his pocket and sets it down against the flat of the surface with deliberate intent, so he can feel the  _thud_  as it drops from his hold. He’s just as deliberate about pushing back from the desk and getting to his feet so he can tug his shirt straight; he thinks the motion is only very slightly undermined by the way his vision spins with the sudden rise and leaves him grabbing at the edge of the desk to keep from falling.

“Come on,” Shizuo says, and when he reaches out for Izaya’s arm it’s gentle, just a weight of fingers sliding over the other’s elbow as he takes some measure of Izaya’s balance for him. “You’re on the verge of collapse, you’re too skinny to miss meals like this.”

“Shouldn’t you just make something for me here?” Izaya asks as he lets Shizuo lead him out from around the desk and towards the front door. “It would be faster.”

“It would be,” Shizuo agrees. He pauses at the door and lets Izaya’s arm go so he can lean over and slide his shoes on; Izaya considers the situation for a moment before deciding that he ought to sit to put his own if he doesn’t want to fall on his face. He lowers himself to sit at the edge of the entryway with as much grace as he can manage under the circumstances and reaches to draw his shoes in towards him while Shizuo is tugging on his second. “And then you would manage to go a full two days without ever stepping out of the house.”

“Fresh air is overrated,” Izaya says as he pulls on one shoe. “You’re making a fuss over nothing, senpai.”

“You sound like a high school shut-in,” Shizuo tells him. “Come on, you’ll feel better as soon as we’re outside.”

“It is  _raining_ ,” Izaya repeats. “As I said.” He settles his second shoe on with force enough to serve as punctuation for his statement. “I don’t know how getting cold and wet is going to make me feel better.”

Shizuo’s laugh is frustratingly contagious; it purrs warmth all down Izaya’s spine in spite of himself and undoes some measure of the tension knotting in the space between his shoulders. “Stop complaining,” Shizuo says, and reaches out to offer his hand to Izaya. “Let’s go for a walk and get you some dinner.”

Izaya lifts his arm without looking to close his grip tight around Shizuo’s outstretched hand and let himself be pulled to his feet by far more of Shizuo’s strength than his own effort. “Moving in with you was a mistake.”

“I love you too,” Shizuo says, and ducks in to kiss against the edge of Izaya’s forehead as he shifts their hands to wind their fingers together. Izaya ducks his head to let his hair fall in front of his face but he’s pretty sure the additional shadows don’t do enough to entirely hide the involuntary smile tugging at his lips. “Come on, let’s go and brave the horrors of the outside world.”

It  _is_  colder outside, even if the rain has temporarily stopped by the time they step out of their apartment building. Izaya can feel his shoulders hunching, can feel himself tipping forward in a reflexive and largely futile effort to retain the glowing warmth of the indoors; but Shizuo reaches out for him as soon as they’re stepping free of the door, giving up their clasped hands to drop an arm around Izaya’s shoulders instead, and Izaya takes the unstated offer and tips himself in closer against Shizuo’s side. It doesn’t make sense that the other should feel so much warmer when Izaya is wearing the fur-lined weight of his usual jacket and Shizuo has on nothing more protective than a dark vest over a white shirt, but the fact stubbornly persists in spite of logic, and Izaya is happy to take advantage of it when it gives him the excuse to press closer against Shizuo in pursuit of the other’s body heat. Shizuo just evens his stride to match Izaya’s, and tightens his hold around the other’s shoulders, and they continue down the path like that, making their way through the familiar space of the apartment complex until they emerge out onto the street proper.

Shizuo takes the lead. Izaya is content enough to let him; he’s still making some show of his unwillingness, and he doesn’t particularly want to trade in stubbornness for the sake of offering a suggestion for dinner. The fact that his stomach is aching with hunger now that he pays attention to it is wholly beside the point; and besides, Shizuo seems to have a clear enough idea of where they’re heading for Izaya to trust himself to the other’s guidance. He lets himself be pulled along by Shizuo’s hold without paying much attention to the direction their steps are leading them and without making any well-informed guesses about their final destination; even when Shizuo turns them off the main road and down into one of the back alleys that cut between two buildings, Izaya barely notes the change in direction. He’s feeling tense and irritable, ready to pick a fight with Shizuo if he can gain traction on the other’s patience or with anyone at all who might happen to interrupt their progress through the city; until when a door to the alley bursts open and a trio of young men tumble out almost into the pair of them, Izaya has the lash of his bad mood to spill off his tongue while they’re all still in the process of catching themselves back from the near-collision.

“My apologies,” he snaps, lifting his chin high to strip the words of any kind of sincerity they might have had. “Might we have your permission to  _walk_  here?” His words are sharp, his tone as cutting as a blade; it’s no surprise when two of the three turn to glare at him, no shock when one of them growls in the back of his throat by answer.

“Sure,” he says, and takes a step forward to separate himself from the other two. “Just as soon as you pay the toll. It ain’t free to take this shortcut, after all.”

“Really,” Izaya drawls, with as much mockery on his tone as he can put there. “Is this  _your_  boulevard? You’ve hardly done a good job of upkeep.”

Shizuo groans softly from alongside him; his arm tightens around Izaya’s shoulders. “Let it go,” he murmurs, his words quiet enough to clearly be intended for Izaya’s ears alone as he tugs to urge them backwards. “We’ll take the long way, come on.”

“No,” Izaya says, jerking hard to shake himself free of the warmth of Shizuo’s hold. The loss just tightens his shoulders further; but he has the electricity of danger snapping between himself and the trio before him, and the crackle of it precisely suits his mood even as he feels the destructive edge tearing raw against his throat. “No, I’m hungry, I don’t want to go the long way around.” He steps forward to close the gap between himself and the others as they shift to band together and make a wall of their shoulders. “I’m not about to throw away good money for a toll road that’s not even decently maintained.” He lifts his chin to look down his nose at the other three as he runs his attention ostentatiously over them, from their short-cropped hair to the scuffed weight of their half-laced boots. “Then again, if the keepers look like  _this_ , I guess I can’t expect them to take better care of their possessions.”

One of the three hisses; another, the aggressive one, takes a step forward as if he intends to loom Izaya into submission. “What was that?”

“Fuck,” Shizuo groans, and a hand comes out to close at Izaya’s shoulder. “Izaya, stop picking a fight.”

Izaya wants to argue. He wants this fight, wants to bare his teeth on a vicious smile and spend some of his frustration in the satisfaction of adrenaline, in the relatively minimal danger of a scuffle he has a trump card to win. But Shizuo’s fingers are tightening at his shoulder, and he knows Shizuo is right in this, however frustrating that may be; and however satisfying it is to imagine these three lying on the ground with the print of Shizuo’s knuckles crushed into their faces, a fight will weight the corners of Shizuo’s mouth, and hunch his shoulders in on that guilt that even all Izaya’s persuasion can’t strip free entirely, and even the thought of it makes Izaya’s chest ache with self-deprecation vicious enough to sap the edge from his words and pull free the irritation under his skin. His shoulders drop, his breath rushes from him; and “Fine,” he says, and turns on his heel, obeying the pull of Shizuo’s hold as the crackle of anticipated adrenaline fades into the cold comfort of passivity. “Only for you, senpai.”

“That’s all I need,” Shizuo tells him as he slides his arm around Izaya’s shoulders to urge the other in close against him. Izaya leans in hard against the support, letting his frustration press in against the unflinching wall of Shizuo next to him. “You’ll feel better after dinner.”

“I had better,” Izaya grumbles, still frowning hard in spite of Shizuo’s hold; and then, as they start to step towards the other end of the alley:

“Hey,” a voice calls from behind them. “Did you say  _Izaya_?”

Izaya turns his head too fast. It’s as good as an admission, as certain a reaction as Shizuo’s hissed intake of breath; but he can’t help it, can’t fight back the jolt of shock that hits him as much at not being immediately recognized as anything else. He wonders if it’s a joke, if the three aren’t about to offer some kind of an apology having realized who they were about to pick a fight with; but when he looks back the leader of the trio is gazing at him with a strange light behind his eyes, and a smile that has far more of disbelief on it than of relief. He looks as if he’s been given a present, as if a winning lottery ticket has just dropped into his lap; and then he takes a step forward, moving away from the two behind him to mark himself out as separate, to claim a space to stand for his own use.

“Orihara Izaya,” he repeats. “That’s you, right? The informant?”

“Yes,” Izaya says; because it’s pointless to try to pretend otherwise when he’s already reacted, and because he has too much pride to try to hide behind a paper-thin excuse, and because this stranger doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into in picking a fight with the pair of them. Izaya pulls free of Shizuo’s hold, twisting to turn on his heel and face the others again; when he steps forward it’s with a deliberate lightness to his step, almost a skip, as if to mock their delusions of intimidation. “I’m afraid I only do business with  _serious_  players in the city, though.”

“Oh, we’re serious,” the other says. He lifts a hand to the collar of his sweater and hooks two fingers into the fabric so he can pull it down. “If you’re really who you say you are you must know about us.” His fingers catch at a strip of cloth tucked into his collar and he tugs the bandanna up to visibility. “We’re part of the Yellow Scarves.”

Izaya doesn’t have to reach for the snort of laughter that spills from him. “If you knew anything about the city you’d pick a different group to claim,” he tells them. “The Yellow Scarves are a bunch of high schoolers, they’re not the big name you think they are.”

The other’s expression doesn’t falter, his smile doesn’t fail; if anything it goes wider, catching and pulling until it’s all but splitting his face, until his eyes are going dark with the force of it. “Some kinda informant,” he purrs, and takes a step closer, near enough that Izaya would back up if he were someone else, if he didn’t feel his blood catching fire in his veins, if he couldn’t sense Shizuo’s presence over his shoulder like an army. “Your rumors are old news.” His hand falls from his neck, leaving the scarf free as he slides his fingers into the pocket of his pants instead. “The Yellow Scarves are back, and we’re not the kiddy gang we used to be.”

Izaya’s attention is on the stranger’s hand. His gaze is fixed on the other’s eyes -- it’s important to hold that point of contact, to make himself look calmer than he is -- but all his focus is on the shift of the other’s pocket, on the motion of what is certainly a weapon as he draws it free. Izaya is expecting a knife, or a taser, one of the small, simple weapons the delinquents of the city carry for backup to the weight of a fist or the force of a kick; and then the stranger draws his hand free, and lifts it towards Izaya, and Izaya finds himself staring into the shadowy barrel of a gun.

For a moment everything is very still. Izaya thinks all five of them there in the alleyway have stopped breathing for a span; even the stranger standing in front of him is trembling, his grip on the gun in his hand so desperate and adrenaline-soaked that Izaya can see the weapon itself quivering with the force of his hold. The other licks his lips and swallows hard; when he speaks it’s with some force on the words, gesturing with the gun as if he’s a teacher holding a pointer.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little shaky and too-loud, like he’s trying to make up for his obvious uncertainty with volume. “Didn’t expect that, did you?” The gun wobbles, the barrel tilts; behind the other’s shoulders Izaya can see the other two leaning back, like they’re thinking about bolting now that things have escalated to this point. “Still think the Yellow Scarves are a bunch of no-good losers?”

“I didn’t say that,” Izaya says without looking away from the gun.

“Hard to remember,” the other says, and takes a step closer. “You say a lot of things, I hear. A lot of things not everyone wants to know.” He tips the gun to the side, angling it as if to gesture with the end. “Maybe I should do everyone a favor and take you out of commission.”

“Hey.” That’s one of the other two, behind the talkative one; he’s stepping forward, now, reaching out one hand towards his friend’s shoulder. “Come on, stop joking around.”

“ _Joking_ ,” the first one says, and he’s twisting around as if he’s been slapped, jerking to glare over his shoulder at the other without moving the gun away from Izaya’s general direction. “Who’s  _joking_?  _I’m_  not joking” and his thumb comes up, the weight of it catching at the hammer of the gun to pull it back and down. There’s a  _click_ , the sound loud as a shout in the echo of the alleyway around them; and then everything happens at once, before Izaya has the chance to more than widen his eyes in shock at the other’s action. There’s a hand closing at his shoulder, a bruising hold jerking him back and off his feet; Izaya stumbles, shouting in the first shock of losing his balance as he tries and fails to catch himself. The sound of his voice echoes off the walls around them, catching and tangling with the sound of a growl, a low resonance that runs down the whole of his spine as Shizuo steps forward, as Shizuo says “ _Give_  me that--” and then there’s a  _crack_ , a sound so loud and deafening that it knocks Izaya’s breath from him in a gasp even as he hits hard against the pavement behind him. His attention jolts, his focus startled away by his abrupt landing; and there’s another sound, a pair of them, so close together that the  _bang_ s of explosions sound almost like a single shout. Izaya blinks, wondering in a distant, stupid way who’s trying to set off firecrackers in a storm; and then he smells the tang of smoke in the air, and he realizes what has happened.

Shizuo is still standing. His shoulders are straight, he’s on his feet; all Izaya can see of him is the line of his back and the certain angle of those legs forming a barrier between where he’s fallen to the pavement and the three gang members in front of them. The one in the front is still holding the gun, the barrel smoking, now, from the burst of the shots he fired; but his hand is slack, his eyes are wide, and there’s no fight in his expression anymore, nothing but raw horror. The one at the back turns and bolts, his store of courage apparently entirely gone; and the second seems on the verge of it, as he makes a desperate grab for his friend’s sleeve. “Come on, come  _on_ , let’s get out of here!” he’s hissing; but the first one, the leader, isn’t resisting, this time, he’s stumbling backwards without turning to see his friend pulling at him or without looking away from Shizuo standing in front of him.

“That’s what you get,” he says, his voice shaking like a leaf in the wind, now; and then, as his gaze drops to Izaya, with a little more force, “You just remember the Yellow Scarves aren’t to be underestimated!” And then he’s turning, pivoting on his heel and breaking into a run at his friend’s urging, turning the corner of the alley before he’s even returned the gun to his pocket. Izaya is left to stare after them, his heart pounding and his thoughts blank; and then Shizuo takes a breath before him, and his attention is jerking back up to the other as fast as his gaze, his whole focus swinging in to land on Shizuo again.

“Shizuo,” he says at once, and he’s moving too, struggling up onto his knees so he can reach out for Shizuo’s hip, can touch against the back of the other’s vest. “Shizuo, hey, you’re alright, right?” Shizuo’s ducking his head, is lifting a hand from his side; his movements are slow, graceful, as if he’s dancing, almost, as if he doesn’t hear Izaya at all. Izaya frowns and catches his fingers to a fist against the back of Shizuo’s vest, wrapping his fingers into a hold as he starts to pull himself up. “Did he miss you?”

“Oh,” Shizuo says; and then his legs buckle, his whole stance giving way like a house of cards as Izaya pulls against the back of his vest. Izaya lands hard on his knees, the fall coming too fast for him to catch himself, but he’s not worried about the impact; because Shizuo is falling too, collapsing down against him like all the strength has left his body. Izaya huffs a breath, air spilling from him in the first shock of impact as Shizuo’s weight crushes in against him; and then Shizuo is grabbing at his shoulder, is flexing his arm enough to carry some measure of his own weight again.

“Sorry,” Shizuo says; but the word is strange, distracted, like his thoughts are elsewhere. He’s blinking hard, as if he’s struggling to find focus for his eyes, as if he’s trying to see Izaya even as close as they are. He tips his head down, his forehead creasing on confusion, or effort, Izaya doesn’t know which; and then he’s lifting his free hand, and pressing it in against the side of his vest.

“Are you hit?” Izaya asks. His heart is beating strangely; he can feel every thud of it pounding in his chest like a hammer, can feel the flutter of it in his throat like it’s choking him. “You’ll be fine, senpai. It’s just like being stabbed, right?” Shizuo doesn’t answer, doesn’t even lift his head in answer to Izaya’s voice; Izaya’s fingers at Shizuo’s vest tighten, his breath catches. “Senpai?”

Shizuo lifts his head. He still has his hand pressed against his side, his arm is taut with the effort that comes with weighting against an injury; but there’s color spreading out from his shoulder, too, crimson leeching out from under the dark of his vest to stain the sleeve of his shirt dark with blood. Izaya’s focus drops to the vest, his eyes seeking the sign of injury, the mark of where the shot hit; but he can’t tell, can’t see clearly enough, and Shizuo’s shirt is spreading red from the left side of his chest like a target.

“Senpai,” Izaya says; and his voice sounds strange, very distant, like an echo of himself. He lifts his hand to press in against Shizuo’s vest, to weight his palm down against the center of that bleeding color. “Shizuo?”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, the familiar syllables warm on his lips. His hand at Izaya’s shoulder tightens, his arm flexing like he’s trying to pull himself up and closer to the other; and then his hold fails, his fingers go slack, and under Izaya’s wide-eyed stare Shizuo’s head falls back, Shizuo’s eyes flutter shut. Izaya’s breath catches, his whole body seizing tight on icy horror; but Shizuo doesn’t move, even as Izaya’s hold on him fists tighter, even as Izaya’s fingers at his vest curl onto a desperate hold.

“Shizuo,” Izaya says again; and then, as his voice cracks open in the back of his throat: “ _Shizuo!_ ” There’s a drop against the back of his neck, the weight of a raindrop splashing to trickle just against the top of his spine and under his shirt; but Izaya doesn’t reach to pull his hood up, doesn’t notice the cold winding across his skin. His hands are starting to shake, his breath is starting to fail; even the thought of calling for help is far-off, distant, hard to hold onto and impossible to act on while he’s yet clinging to Shizuo as if he’s singlehandedly holding the other to survival.

When the first drops of rain darken Shizuo’s hair, they catch and mingle with the hot of Izaya’s tears against the other’s skin.


	21. Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shifting posting schedule temporarily to accommodate an extra fic, so this comes early! Next chapter will be on the original schedule as usual.

Shizuo comes to before Shinra arrives.

Izaya managed to fumble Shizuo’s phone free of his pocket eventually, sometime after he determined that he could still feel the steady rhythm of Shizuo’s heartbeat under his palm even with the hiccuping catch of his own breath to serve as distraction. He doesn’t remember what he said into the receiver; something shrill and desperate, probably, worth apologizing for later when he’s collected himself. But Shinra didn’t indicate any kind of offense, just asked where they were and said he’d be on his way, and then Izaya was left to pocket Shizuo’s phone without thinking and go on feeling the steady pace of Shizuo’s heartbeat under his palm while paranoia miscounted seconds and whimpered about missed beats. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t stop shaking; and then Shizuo had taken a sharp inhale, and said “Izaya?” with his voice clear even if softer than usual, and Izaya had sobbed over a breath and tipped himself forward to clutch hard against Shizuo’s shoulders as Shizuo huffed a weak laugh and reached up to hold steady around Izaya’s waist in return.

Izaya isn’t holding Shizuo now. He’s sitting against the corner of the alley, where Celty urged him with reassuring texts that he didn’t read while Shinra insisted that he needed space enough to work; it’s only Shizuo waving him off with a flash of a smile that finally got Izaya to move, and he hasn’t shifted since except to draw his knees up against his chest and hold onto them as if they’re going to brace him steady against the adrenaline still trembling through his veins. His hair is sticking wet to his head, rain is trickling down the back of his neck and wetting the collar of his coat; but he doesn’t move to pull his hood up and doesn’t shift to gain more cover under the awning of the building behind him. It’s enough that Shizuo is sitting up, is moving normally even as he peels his vest off and unbuttons the bloodstained white of his shirt, and even when he pulls the fabric back to bare his skin there’s no flood of red, nothing but a thin trickle as if of a fast-healing wound.

“This isn’t even that big of a deal,” Shinra announces, settling back onto his knees as he twists to reach for the doctor’s bag Celty is offering for him. Celty’s hands are trembling too, Izaya sees; it’s something of a relief, to know that he’s not the only one so weakened by fright. It takes her a moment to type against the screen of her phone; when she holds it out Shinra has to lift a hand to steady it so he can read the characters.

“Ha!” Shinra breaks into an easy laugh, shaking his head as he lets Celty’s phone go. “No, I don’t think he even needs a hospital. I mean we’ll want to get the bullets out but they’re quite near the surface, actually, they didn’t go much farther than breaking the skin. I wouldn’t think that’d be enough to more than knock you over for a second, Shizuo.”

“It was  _startling_ ,” Shizuo growls. “I wasn’t really expecting to get  _shot_  on my way to dinner.”

“That is true,” Shinra allows. “I don’t think that’s something anyone really looks forward to, except Izaya, maybe. And he wouldn’t have taken it  _nearly_  as well as you did. If he were the one to get shot you’d have been better off calling a mortic-- _mgffghh!_ ”

Izaya thinks it’s for the best that Celty tangles the weight of her shadows around Shinra’s mouth when she does, judging from the way Shizuo’s expression has hardened as instantly as if turned to ice. Shinra’s hardly the one to blame for that, to be sure; but Izaya’s never seen Shizuo look quite so defensive before, and he’s not sure the other is in a place to make much of a distinction between those that actually offered the threat and the one who’s making such casual reference to it now. Celty is typing something into her phone; when she holds it up Shizuo’s attention comes around to focus on the screen, his frown heavy at his lips as he considers the words. Izaya can watch the set of his mouth ease, can see some of the weight at his forehead give way; and then Shizuo takes a breath, and shakes his head, and he’s himself again, without that all-consuming rage darkening his eyes and stealing his rationality.

“You’re right,” he says to Celty, his tone verging on something like apology. “That  _is_  the bright side.” Shizuo tips forward towards Shinra, now digging his medical implements out of his bag without waiting for Celty to free her shadowy grip on his mouth; the shift in his angle clears his line of sight to Izaya enough for them to make eye contact. “You  _are_  okay, right Izaya?”

Izaya presses his lips together and swallows hard without loosening his hold on his still-shaking legs. “Of course,” he says, his tone strange and echoey, as if he’s hearing the words rattle at the inside of his head. “I’m fine, senpai.” Shizuo frowns at him, his brows drawing together as if Izaya’s said the opposite of the words he offered; but Celty is loosening Shinra’s gag, and the other takes a breath and launches back into speech as if he never stopped in the first place.

“It really is impressive,” he says as he reaches out to grab at Shizuo’s shoulder and urge him back. “It looks like they almost  _bounced_  off you. I wonder if there’s anything that could kill you like you are now?” Izaya makes a sound, something raw and involuntary in the back of his throat, and Shinra breaks into a laugh without even hesitating to look back at him. “Not that I’m crazy enough to try something. Even if I succeed Izaya would never let me get away with it!” He reaches out to press a bracing hand against Shizuo’s shirt, holding the other still as much as he’s pinning his clothing back and out of the way while he raises the forceps he needs to draw the bullets free of Shizuo’s fast-healing body. “I’m surprised he’s still here at all, actually.” Shinra closes the forceps around something, bracing them in place as he draws the mangled remains of a bullet free. Shizuo just hisses, a short breath of reaction to the motion, but Izaya flinches, his shoulders hunching in closer over his knees as his throat closes up on the force of some instinctive reaction as if to mirror the pain Shizuo ought to be feeling. “I’d expect him to be off getting revenge by now.”

Celty tips her helmet-covered head to the side, the motion indicative of confusion even before she ducks over the screen of her phone to patter a response against her keyboard.  _Who_ was _it?_ she asks, holding the phone up for Izaya’s consideration rather than Shinra’s distraction or Shizuo’s teeth-gritted tolerance.  _That came after you with a gun?_

Izaya has to clench his teeth for a moment, has to brace himself to steadiness while he ducks his head and swallows back the bitter tang of rage from his throat. “The Yellow Scarves,” he says, forcing the words past his teeth with as much calm as he can muster for them. It’s not a lot. “They said they were with the Yellow Scarves.”

Celty reels back.  _The Yellow Scarves?_  she asks.  _I thought they disbanded ages ago_.

“I thought so too,” Izaya says. “That was my mistake.” He tightens his fingers against his legs and pulls harder against the support of his knees. “I won’t make one like that again.”

“Oh boy,” Shinra says, sounding more amused than alarmed. He’s working against Shizuo’s hip now, squinting against the haze of the rain on his glasses as he fishes for the second of the three shots that impacted the other’s body. “That sounds dangerous.” He closes the forceps tight in his grip and tugs to draw the bullet back and free. “You’re already planning your revenge, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Izaya says without any hesitation. “I’m going to find them and I’m going to destroy them.”

“Ooh,” Shinra laughs. “Right now?”

“ _No_.” That’s from another voice, neither Izaya’s nor Shinra’s; the tone is level, flat, heavy with certainty. Izaya doesn’t think he would listen to anyone else; but he’s had too many years of responding to that tone, there’s too much history in the weight of command on that one word. He lifts his head, his gaze coming up in spite of himself; and Shizuo is staring at him, his jaw set and his gaze unflinching.

“No,” Shizuo says; and he leans sideways, ignoring Shinra’s continued efforts as he reaches out to offer his hand to Izaya. His fingers are pink, his skin stained with the smear of his own blood; Izaya doesn’t hesitate at all in reaching out to fit his hand atop Shizuo’s, in pressing his palm close against the other’s. Shizuo’s fingers tighten to a grip against his, his hold flexing hard around Izaya’s hand; Izaya sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his chest flex on almost-pain at the relief that hits him at that too-strong grip, at that proof of Shizuo’s strength uninhibited by the wounds Shinra is pressing a bandage over even as they wait. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

Izaya lifts his gaze to Shizuo’s face. He doesn’t have any words to offer, doesn’t have any confirmation he can give; but Shizuo doesn’t look away, just flickers the hint of a smile as he shifts his hold on Izaya’s hand. Izaya’s heart skips, his chest tightens like it’s caught in Shizuo’s grip instead of his hand; but when he shifts it’s only to clutch harder at Shizuo, to tighten his hold bruise-hard against Shizuo’s bloodstained fingers. Shizuo doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t pull away; with the press of Shizuo’s hold against his fingers, Izaya feels like he might even be able to breathe again.

The rain spills over their hands to wash away the red of Shizuo’s blood from their skin, but even with the chill Izaya’s hand feels like it’s glowing with Shizuo’s borrowed warmth.


	22. Fretful

“I could do it,” Izaya says without turning around from where he’s standing in front of the window in the living room and looking down unseeing at the movement on the street below. “You know I could, senpai.”

Shizuo’s groan is half-exasperated and half-amused, almost affectionate even pitched loud as it is to carry across the room from where he’s lying across the couch. “I’ve never doubted your ability to wreck havoc, Izaya.”

“Right,” Izaya says. “So I’m saying just let me go out and--”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo snaps without waiting for Izaya to finish his much-repeated sentence. “I can’t let you go into that alone. I’m your  _bodyguard_ , doesn’t that mean I’m supposed to protect you?”

Izaya reaches out to press his palm hard against the window. “You did,” he says. His voice sounds strange, like he’s hearing the echo of it from the storm-chilled glass of the window before him. “That is the primary reason why you’re recovering from being  _shot_.”

“I  _am_  recovering,” Shizuo says. “Better than you would be, if it had been you.”

Izaya’s fingers tighten against the glass, dragging over it to curl in against his palm. “I wish it had been me.”

He’s speaking softly, without the intention of letting Shizuo hear the words; but maybe he misjudges the quiet of the room, or maybe Shizuo is just too experienced in catching the murmur of his voice and guessing as to his meaning. There’s a hiss from behind him, a dark sound like a rumble of thunder, and: “ _I_  don’t,” Shizuo says, with something almost like anger on the words. “Look at me.” Izaya doesn’t turn around, doesn’t so much as shift his head. “ _Izaya_.”

Izaya touches his tongue to his lips and swallows hard. “I’m listening.”

“Izaya, please look at me.” Izaya ducks his head and presses his lips tighter together; from behind him Shizuo heaves a heavy sigh. “I can get up and come to you instead, if you want.” Izaya hisses wordless rejection to this, the sound immediate and involuntary at his lips, and Shizuo huffs something like a laugh. “Please come over here, Izaya.”

Izaya hesitates another moment. It’s hard to make himself move when he feels as chilled as he does now; sometimes it feels like the rain from that afternoon in the alley has seeped into his very bones, has stolen some measure of the fire from his blood and left him too cold to even shiver in its absence. But he can feel Shizuo’s attention on him, and the words that are more a promise than a threat; and so he tightens his fingers to dig his nails in hard against his palm, and he pushes against the cool of the glass to urge his feet into a turn so he can look back at Shizuo on the couch.

Shizuo looks well enough. He always does; with his shirt on and mostly buttoned the bandages covering his chest and taped down at his side are entirely invisible, hidden underneath the fall of the fabric along with the shadows of bruising that have expanded around both injuries. He’s even sitting up instead of reclining back over the cushions as he’s supposed to; that’s enough to pull Izaya’s mouth onto a frown and bring him back over the distance towards the other without giving the cold in him time to lock him back to stillness.

“You’re supposed to be lying down,” he says, reaching out as he comes closer to brace a hand at Shizuo’s shoulder and push him back towards horizontal. “It’ll only take longer if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Shizuo says, his mouth twitching on a held-back smile; but he’s going back anyway, letting Izaya push him down to the couch without offering any of the resistance Izaya knows he could, if he felt like it. “It’s not going to take a week, I really do feel just fine already.”

“Shinra said a week,” Izaya says, with the same certainty he has offered every time he has said this over the last few days. “You’re no good to me as a bodyguard if you wait until we’re in the middle of a fight before you collapse.”

He’s teasing, or trying to; it’s hard to find the levity for his tone, hard to find the edge of a laugh for the back of his tongue. Still, it should be clearly amusement more than sincerity on the words, ought to be enough to pull at least a token smile from Shizuo; but when Shizuo’s lashes dip it’s to soften his gaze into something warm with sympathy, and when he lifts his hand it’s to touch his fingers against the line of Izaya’s jaw.

“Really,” he says, and his voice is as gentle as his touch, steady and certain and so warm it makes Izaya’s throat close up, makes his fingers tremble where he’s still gripping at Shizuo’s shoulder. “I truly am fine, Izaya.”

Izaya blinks hard and sets his jaw like the extra force will give him control over the knot in his throat, will somehow ease the strain locking around his chest. Neither hoped-for result manifests. “I know,” he says; but even those words come out strained and strange, almost pained in the back of his throat. “Of course you are. Maybe I just like the excuse to play nurse, did you--did you ever think about that?”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, still in that gentle tone that tightens against Izaya’s breathing and quivers down the whole of his arm. The hand against his face slides back and down to curl in against his neck and tug against him. “Come here.”

Shizuo isn’t pulling hard. If he wanted he could force Izaya in against him, could drag the other bodily off his feet without any hesitation even if he  _is_  ostensibly injured. But Izaya’s legs give way all the same, folding underneath him as if Shizuo’s touch has stripped all the strength from him, until it’s only his hold at the other’s shoulder that keeps him from toppling in against Shizuo entirely. He manages to get himself down to the floor instead, moving first to kneel and then to sit against the cool of the wood, and when Shizuo slides his hand up into Izaya’s hair Izaya lets himself be drawn in and down to press his forehead against the warmth of Shizuo’s chest and the steady thud of his heartbeat.

“You worry too much,” Shizuo says, the words chastising but his tone as gentle as the slide of his fingers through Izaya’s hair. Izaya shuts his eyes against the white of Shizuo’s shirt and lets his hand at the other’s shoulder go slack so his arm is draping against Shizuo more than bracing against him. He doesn’t try to put words to a protest. “I’m completely fine. You never used to be this way about a little blood.”

“It’s not the blood,” Izaya mumbles into Shizuo’s shirt without lifting his head. “You were  _shot_  right in front of me before you collapsed in my arms. I thought you were  _dying_ , Shizu-chan. It was a very traumatizing experience.”

“I’m sorry,” Shizuo says. “I’ll try to warn you before I pass out next time, would that help?”

“Yes,” Izaya says at once. “Retaining consciousness would be  _ideal_ , but if you’re not up for the challenge...”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Shizuo says. Izaya doesn’t have to be looking at the other’s face to hear the smile on the words. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to die on you.”

Izaya huffs skepticism into Shizuo’s shirtfront. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” Shizuo says as he winds his fingers farther into Izaya’s hair. “I’m not going to leave you alone. You can count on me.”

Izaya tips his head slightly to the side so he can look up at Shizuo sideways through the fall of his hair. “What, you’ll reject death out of sheer determination?”

“Sure.” Shizuo  _is_  smiling, his head angled against the arm of the couch so he can look at Izaya leaning against him. “The power of love will keep me alive.”

Izaya makes a face and lifts his hand from where it’s resting against Shizuo’s shoulder to push against the other’s jaw. “You are such a  _sap_.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says with perfect ease. “And you’re blushing.” He touches his fingers against Izaya’s hair to push it back from the other’s face for a moment before Izaya turns his head down to hide his expression against Shizuo’s shirtfront. He pushes against Shizuo’s face in a half-formed attempt to scatter the other’s attention away from him and Shizuo laughs and lets his hand fall in against the back of Izaya’s neck, his fingers weighting gently there like he’s cradling the other against him. “Feel better?”

“Be quiet,” Izaya says, pushing his hand in until he’s fumbled his way into pressing his palm against Shizuo’s mouth. “You should be resting.” Shizuo laughs against his fingers, the rush of his breath warm against Izaya’s skin, and when his lips shift it’s to press a kiss to Izaya’s hand, encouraging more than rejecting the other’s touch. Izaya can’t help the way he smiles against Shizuo’s shirt; after a moment he turns his head to look up at the other, even if he’s hasn’t yet managed to rein in the tug of affection at his lips. Shizuo is still looking at him, his eyes soft and as warm as his breathing spilling through the gaps between Izaya’s fingers; he looks perfectly healthy, without any of the shadows under his eyes or tension in his forehead that would speak to sincere, deeper pain. It’s as reassuring as the rhythm of his heartbeat and the strength in his casual hold against Izaya’s neck; and it makes Izaya’s smile pull wider on his face and grants him the motivation to lift his head from Shizuo’s chest entirely so he can straighten over his knees alongside the couch before sliding his hand free from the other’s mouth.

“I hope you’re prepared,” he says, in his best faux-sincere tone. “Once you’re back on your feet I have a whole list of things we’re going to need to take on.”

Shizuo raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” he says. “What’s first? Vengeance?”

Izaya lifts his hand to brush this idea aside. “That’s for later,” he says airily, as if he hasn’t been turning the problem over every waking and many sleeping hours for the last handful of days. “Most important is getting you back into the bedroom and testing the limits of your renewed vitality.”

Shizuo’s eyebrow goes higher, the corner of his mouth twitches on the start of a smile. “ _Vitality_ ,” he repeats. “Is that really something you’re concerned about?”

“Of course,” Izaya says. “After all this time spent recovering, it’s important to test your physical endurance first thing.”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums. His fingers at the back of Izaya’s neck slide up, his palm braces close against the back of the other’s head. “I really am feeling  _much_  better, you know.”

“Are you sure?” Izaya asks, letting his voice hum over put-on concern as his shoulders tip forward in unhesitating obedience to the urging of Shizuo’s hand at the back of his head. “I’d hate to be the cause of delaying your recovery.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Shizuo purrs. His mouth is so close Izaya can feel the vibration of the words spilling over his lips. “Come up here and I’ll prove it to you.”

“Show off,” Izaya says, but his speech is lost to his smile and to Shizuo’s lips in equal parts, and he’s too busy shutting his eyes and leaning in to the kiss to bother forming a more coherent response. Shizuo’s hand curls against the back of his neck to hold him steady, Shizuo leans up and off the support of the couch beneath him, and Izaya is fitting his fingers in under the collar of Shizuo’s shirt and tipping in against the other rather than chastising him back into relaxation. Shizuo’s hand is catching at his waist, the other’s fingers are spreading wide to rumple Izaya’s shirt up over the dip of his back, and Izaya is letting himself be pulled in to press against Shizuo’s chest, to let his weight pin the other back down against the soft of the couch where he’s been lying all morning. The cold from the window is forgotten, the chill ache in Izaya’s throat has melted like it was never there at all; all Izaya is thinking of is the give of Shizuo’s mouth under his, and the drag of Shizuo’s tongue teasing against his lips, and the feel of Shizuo’s fingers slipping up and under his shirt. He’s leaning in closer, rocking up off his knees to press against Shizuo and the brace of his hand against the back of the couch as he slides in closer in expectation of climbing up to straddle the sprawl of Shizuo’s legs beneath him; and then there’s a rattle of sound, a musical chime startling enough to sound like an alarm for the first moment, and Izaya breaks away from Shizuo’s mouth blinking hard against the disorienting shock of the noise.

“What…?” Shizuo asks, sounding approximately as heat-dazed as he looks; but Izaya is collecting himself more rapidly, and besides he knows that sound somewhat better than Shizuo does. He makes a face as he rocks back over his knees to slide back from the draw of Shizuo’s mouth for the hopefully brief necessity of the interruption.

“My phone,” he says, tipping his head to look down as he frees his hand from Shizuo’s neck so he can pull the device free of his pocket. “Let me just--” and then he sees the name displayed on the screen, and all the slow-rising warmth in his veins hardens down into a core of sudden, bitter anger. It must show on his face, even if he doesn’t mean it to, because Shizuo hisses from where he’s lying across the couch and pushes up at once to take the support of his body on his elbow.

“What is it?” he asks, his tone tense and his eyes dark with worry. “Who’s calling?”

Izaya shakes his head, the gesture more to push aside the need for his response than in answer to Shizuo. “I’m taking this,” he says; and then he presses the  _Answer_  button and lifts the phone to his ear without waiting for Shizuo’s response.

The voice comes immediately, without hesitating for any kind of a greeting on Izaya’s part. “ _Izaya?_ ” Masaomi’s voice is raw, dragged to tension that Izaya can hear even over the distortion of the phone line; Izaya doesn’t answer, just holds the phone against his ear and waits. “ _That is you listening, isn’t it?_ ” A breath, so desperate Izaya can hear the catch on it. “ _I heard Shizuo got shot. Is he okay?_ ”

“You  _heard_ ,” Izaya repeats, his voice so chill even the emphasis is a technical thing, a matter of timing more than of volume. “Who told you? Did your underlings come back to brag to their leader about their success?”

There’s a pause. “ _What?_ ” Masaomi says. “ _What are you talking about?_ ”

“The Yellow Scarves,” Izaya says without letting his tone so much as flicker from the ice he’s layered into it. “They’re  _your_  gang, aren’t they?” Shizuo’s eyes widen into understanding, his shoulders angle back into something like relief as he realizes to whom Izaya is speaking; but there’s no relief in Izaya’s thoughts, no easing of the tension straining in his shoulders. He has his gaze fixed on the far wall of the apartment, his thoughts as blank as if he’s reciting lines instead of framing them in the moment; he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he looks down to see the smooth white covering the outline of bandages at Shizuo’s chest and stomach, doesn’t know what he might say if he lets himself actually think about the speech at his lips. “You should have warned them before you gave them a gun and told them to come after me. If they were going to get rid of Shizuo they should have aimed for his head instead, it’s surprisingly hard to hit someone’s heart.”

“ _What_ ,” Masaomi repeats; but he sounds horrified, this time, his voice is trembling so badly it’s hard for Izaya to even make sense of the word. “ _I didn’t--you think_ I _did this?_ ”

“They’re your gang,” Izaya says. “Who else ought I to be holding responsible?”

“ _It wasn’t me_ ,” Masaomi blurts, speaking fast, now, like he’s rushing to get words past his lips. “ _I would never send anyone out after you or Shizuo, not...they were_ Yellow Scarves _?_ ”

“They were.” Izaya’s tone is pitiless, his words unflinching; he feels like a train continuing down a track, like fate itself has taken hold of him to urge him onward. “They wore  _your_  sign. They certainly seemed to think someone would be more than happy to see me gone. If you want to point a gun at me, Masaomi-kun, you had better have the guts to do it yourself or you ought to be  _damn_  sure those bullets are going to hit where you want them to go.”

“I don’t,” Masaomi says, the words tearing from him with such force they’re nearly a scream. “ _I didn’t want this, I didn’t have anything to do with this. I don’t want you dead, I don’t want Shizuo-san dead, I don’t--please, you_ have _to believe me_.”

Izaya wants to keep pushing. There’s a satisfaction to this, a dark, vicious twist of revenge in him that purrs over Masaomi’s obvious panic, that wants to dig and dig at this exposed nerve of fright until he has the other cowed, hysterical, until Masaomi is feeling the terror of this moment as keenly as Izaya did himself those days hence, with rainwater chilling the back of his neck and tears hiccuping in his throat. For a moment he hesitates, feeling the inertia of savagery at his lips, feeling his own hurt demanding a grounding point for vengeance; and then there’s a touch at his head, fingers brushing gently across his hair, and Izaya startles back into himself just as Shizuo’s touch slides down to brace his phone in place of his own hold.

“Let me,” Shizuo says, his words as gentle as the soft of his smile, his touch as kind as the dark of his eyes. Izaya blinks, feeling like he’s been pulled out of some shadowy place he had wandered, or maybe as if Shizuo has just curled fingers into his collar and urged him back from a rooftop ledge, and he lets Shizuo slide his phone free, giving up the weight of the device at his palm in exchange for the press of Shizuo’s hand against the side of his neck and the comforting warmth of the other’s touch just over the dip of his collar. Shizuo brings the phone to his ear without pulling away from his idle touch against Izaya’s neck and without a flicker in the smile still toying at his lips.

“Hey,” he says, his voice still that soft tone he used with Izaya. “It’s Kida, right?” A pause while he listens to whatever Masaomi is babbling through on the other end of the line. “Yeah, I’m fine. No, it was no big deal.” The span of a breath; Shizuo’s fingers tighten against the back of Izaya’s neck, just for a minute. “I know. He’s really freaked out about it, it’s not that he blames you.”

“Isn’t it?” Izaya asks; but the words are sullen more than sincere, and the look Shizuo shoots him says the other knows that as well as Izaya.

“Yeah.” Shizuo shifts against the couch to get into a better position; his hand lingers against Izaya without so much as shifting. “Really. Yeah. I was barely bleeding.” He goes quiet for a moment; Izaya can see a shadow flicker over Shizuo’s expression, can watch a measure of tension form against the other’s forehead and draw down at the corners of his mouth. “They really were Yellow Scarves.” Another pause, much longer this time; Shizuo doesn’t so much as open his mouth to interrupt whatever Masaomi is saying on the other end of the line. Izaya doesn’t either; he just sits still where he is, watching Shizuo listening to Masaomi and feeling vaguely like he’s waiting for some kind of judgment, as if he’s sitting in the audience of some criminal proceeding and watching to see what decision the judge makes. He wonders idly what Masaomi is saying, wonders what kind of an explanation or apology the other might be giving; but whatever it is Shizuo’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker to give him away, and Shizuo doesn’t speak until Masaomi has wound himself down.

“Got it,” Shizuo says against the phone. His voice is level; it’s strange to hear him sound so calm when there’s so much weight behind the dark of his gaze. “Good. Keep it that way.” His gaze flickers to Izaya; the force of his attention is enough to clarify his intent even before he next speaks, enough that Izaya is reaching out even before Shizuo says, “I’m going to give you back to Izaya” and offers the phone back. Izaya takes it carefully, bracing his fingers to deliberate steadiness against the edges of the device; and then he brings it to his ear, and he begins to speak.

“Masaomi-kun,” Izaya says. He can hear Masaomi take a breath on the other side of the line, can hear the strain in it as if it’s a signpost for the other’s panic; he goes on without pausing, enunciating the words against the receiver with deliberate care. “Don’t say anything. If Shizuo forgives you then you and I are fine.” Masaomi’s breath hisses, the sound giveaway for the tension in him, but Izaya is already continuing without waiting for a reply.

“You’re going to stay out of this.” It’s almost an order, verging towards a command; Izaya doesn’t pause over giving it. “This isn’t your gang anymore, it’s outside your control. We’ll deal with it ourselves but you and anyone you care about ought to be far away. That goes for your boyfriend, too.”

That pulls a reaction from Masaomi, a sharp sound as if Izaya has punched him. “ _What?_ ” he blurts. “ _He...Mikado’s not my_ boyfriend.”

“And yet you knew exactly who I was talking about,” Izaya tells him, and Masaomi goes as silent as if he’s hung up the phone. “I’m serious. Keep him and his followers in the Dollars out of the way or they’ll get caught in the fallout, I’m not feeling particularly concerned about bystanders.”

There’s a pause. Izaya can almost hear the wheels turning in Masaomi’s head, can almost imagine the tremor of alarm at the other’s mouth. Finally there’s a breath, sharp and catching, and: “ _Mikado’s in the Dollars?_ ” with the start of something between disbelief and horror on the words.

Izaya doesn’t try to soften the mocking edge of his laugh. “Mikado  _started_  the Dollars,” he says. “The two of you have a lot to talk about. Maybe you could invite him on a day trip out of the city, take some time to reconnect and catch back up with each other.” He lets the teasing drop from his voice, lets himself dip back into absolute sincerity. “I don’t really care what you do, but I think  _you’ll_  want to be well clear of the city until this blows over.”

Izaya can hear the effort of Masaomi swallowing on the other end of the line, as if Izaya’s words are a threat, or intended as such, when they aren’t truly anything but absolute, unflinching sincerity. Izaya doesn’t bother to try to clarify. “ _Right_ ,” Masaomi says, sounding shaky and more than a little panicked; but sounding obedient, too, which is more to the point of what Izaya needs from him. “ _Yeah. I’ll do that_.”

“Good luck,” Izaya says. The words come out flat; he wonders if Masaomi knows how sincere he is. “I’ll talk to you after.” And he draws the phone away from his ear and hangs up without waiting for a farewell from the other end.

From the couch Shizuo breathes out, a long sigh of relief and resignation at once. “Is he going to be okay?”

Izaya shrugs one-shouldered. “I don’t know,” he says, and leans forward to drop his phone back on the table. “We’ll find out later, I guess.” He turns back towards the couch, twisting against the floor as he reaches out to replace his arm heavy over Shizuo’s chest; Shizuo lifts his hand at once to reach and ruffle into Izaya’s hair, and Izaya lets his head turn down against the support of Shizuo’s shirtfront and breathe in deliberately slow against the warmth of the other’s body against him.

Izaya’s breathing is perfectly steady, his voice didn’t quiver at all. He’s sure he’s the very picture of calm, is certain there’s no trace of tension anywhere in him to give him away; but still, Shizuo only lets a handful of seconds pass before he takes a breath and says “They’ll be okay,” in the soothing tone he adopts when he thinks Izaya needs comforting. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Izaya says without lifting his head. “I’m just waiting for you to finish healing so we can go rain destruction down upon our enemies. I’m looking forward to it if anything.”

“I know you are,” Shizuo says. “I’m just saying.” His fingers curl in to ruffle against the hair falling at the back of Izaya’s neck. “You don’t need to worry.”

Izaya doesn’t offer a response to that, but from the way Shizuo keeps stroking against the fall of his hair, he doesn’t need to.


	23. Verdict

It’s not hard to find the Yellow Scarves headquarters.

Izaya has some leads to begin with, of course. Masaomi certainly knows, if Izaya needed to go to him directly to ask for the information; but Izaya’s the one who told him to stay out of this, and he doesn’t want to involve the other even secondhand. So he goes the long way around, via forum posts and a call to Shiki and some subtle digging in the chatroom; and by the time Shizuo’s wounds are free of their bandages Izaya is armed with a location, and a plan, and a thirst for vengeance so intense it’s only Shizuo’s persistent refusal that keeps him from making his way to the headquarters to take out the group singlehandedly.

It’s better this way, Izaya thinks, as he takes the lead to turn off the main road and head towards the abandoned warehouse near the edge of town where the gang holds its regular gathering. It would take him far more preparation than this if he had attempted it alone, and even Shiki’s assurances that the gun that set all this off was a one-time misstep isn’t enough to wholly assuage Izaya’s concerns on that front. He isn’t perfectly confident in the kind of fight he’s leading them into; were he on his own he’d have to bother with a disguise, and backup, and a much more complex plan to give him reasonable odds of getting in and out with minimal harm to himself. It would have taken more time and effort than he wants to give to a group he so disdains; and under the circumstances, there’s a certain poetic justice in the simplicity of the current approach.

The Yellow Scarves have minimal guards out. There’s just a few of them, a trio all standing close together a few feet from the door and doing a better job of shivering than of keeping watch. Izaya and Shizuo make it within shouting distance by the time they are noticed at all, and even then it’s only with furrowed brows and tightening frowns rather than the call of warning they ought to be concerned about giving. It would be worth correcting, if Izaya had any personal investment in the continuation of the gang; or if he had any true expectation of their being a gang at all by the end of tonight.

“Hey,” one of the guards says, stepping forward with a swagger to his stride that has all the bravado that can fit into a walk and none of the solid certainty that would indicate a true threat. “You ain’t supposed to be here. Maybe you ought to take a turn and head back the way you came if you don’t want to find yourselves in a lot of trouble.”

“A lot of trouble,” Izaya repeats. He slows his stride marginally, enough to let Shizuo take the lead ahead of him; Shizuo is already rolling his shirtsleeves up over his forearms, is already tugging the crisp white fabric back to leave his arms bare from elbow to wrist. “You’re right. We  _are_  a lot of trouble.”

The gang member’s expression tightens, his forehead creases on confusion. “What--” he starts; and then Shizuo steps forward, and swings his fist, and the man is propelled backwards as if he’s been flung through the air. The force is enough to send him toppling into one of the two behind him and knock them both to the ground; the third is left to gape in shock, blinking wide-eyed at the pair of them as they approach.

“Wait,” he says, like he’s struggling for coherency as he stumbles backwards by a step, as his gaze flickers over first Izaya and then Shizuo, his mouth twisting as he reaches for the line of recognition. “You’re...you are…”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Izaya says, and steps in close to the other. Maybe it’s the distraction of Shizuo’s easy blows that holds the other’s attention; Izaya doesn’t care particularly, in the end. What matters is that the gang member is looking elsewhere, his eyes wide and not tracking Izaya’s movements in particular, and that’s a critical mistake. “We’ve got that handled.” And he swings the knife in his pocket up and open in a single motion, twisting the weight of it in his hand so the blade catches and cuts cleanly through the sleeve of the other’s shirt. The man’s eyes bulge, his hand swings up from his side to clutch at his arm as he tries to jerk backwards; but Izaya has the advantage of footing, and it’s a simple thing to catch his toe just behind the other’s boot to send him sprawling to the ground.

“You should be thanking us,” Izaya informs him, even though the man is staring up at him with eyes blown so wide on shock and horror he suspects none of his words are being understood at all. “You’re the lucky ones, to be caught out here. You can make your escape while we’re busy inside.” He tips his weight back over his heel to arch his position into the grace he knows looks eerie from his opponent’s position, into the elegance that doesn’t admit the possibility of an attack landing even if it’s attempted. “I’ll be busy for a few days at least with all this. Maybe I’ll have forgotten your faces by the time I get around to digging for information.” He shifts, starting to twist away from the man gaping up at him without bothering to defend himself against an attack he knows won’t be coming. “Come on, Shizu-chan, we have bigger problems to deal with.”

“Shizu-ch--” the man on the ground breathes, repeating over the words like an echo; and then his breath gives way, his eyes go wide, and his focus skips over Izaya’s shoulder to where Shizuo is standing, slouched back into comfort that utterly belies the danger carried in those uncovered arms. “Oh  _fuck_ , you’re Orihara and Heiwajima.”

“That’s right,” Izaya says. “Do you know what that means?” The man’s eyes are going wider with every heartbeat; Izaya isn’t sure he’s listening at all. He takes another step in closer, just to make his point; the man cowers backwards, scrabbling across the ground as if he’ll be able to make anything like an effective escape when he’s all but lying across the pavement. Izaya steps in as near as he can get, so close the toes of his shoes are brushing the other’s sleeve; and then he stops, looking down his nose with the full weight of haughty self-assurance he can muster for the cold behind his eyes.

“Your gang fucked up,” he says, delivering the words like the death sentence they are, for the group if not for this individual. The man whimpers in the back of his throat; it’s a helpless, animal noise, the sound of terror so raw Izaya can almost taste it in the air. Izaya doesn’t look away, doesn’t back down; he just keeps watching the man before him, his gaze steady and his tone unflinching. “We’re going to go inside and deal with whoever thought that pointing a gun at us was a good idea.” The man’s gaze jumps to Shizuo again; the motion is as good as a confession of his awareness of the situation, perfect proof for his knowledge of the other’s apparent injury, but Izaya doesn’t recognize his face as one of the three in the alley, and that means he can yet spare himself the worst of Izaya’s vengeance. Izaya lifts his foot and nudges against the other’s ribs; the man flinches and jerks back as if the glancing contact carried the full weight of a kick.

“Get out of here,” Izaya suggests. “If you’re gone by the time we’re done in there I won’t bother coming after you.” He sees the man’s gaze jump over his shoulder again; when he smiles he can feel the tension of it drag across his lips. “Shizu-chan goes where I go. Stay out of trouble and you might make it in the city after all, if you stay out of our way. How many people are inside?”

The man licks his lips. His whole body is shaking like a leaf. “Dozens. Maybe a hundred, I don’t--I don’t know. Too many for just the two of you.”

“That’s enough,” Izaya says. “We should be busy in there long enough for you to get away before we’re done, at least.” He turns away again, cutting off the conversation and whatever protests the other might offer at one at the same time with the angle of his shoulders. “Come on, senpai. Let’s get revenge.”

No one else stops them. Izaya doesn’t know if it’s a matter of insufficient guards or maybe that any others have too well-developed a survival instinct to stick around after the first; it doesn’t make a difference, anyway, not really. It’s enough that he knows where he’s going, that he has Shizuo at his side, that he has all the icy chill of rage running through his veins alongside his blood; and then they come up to the doors of the warehouse, and Izaya steps forward and braces both hands against the doors. The metal is cool, chilled with the bite of winter in the wind; Izaya presses hard, flattening his palms against the surface before him until he imagines he can feel the vibration of the voices of the crowd inside thrumming against his palms, until he feels like he’s holding the whole of the gang members within between the span of his pinky and thumb. His heart is racing, his breath is taut on adrenaline; but his thoughts are clear, as cool and calm and brilliant as the air around them.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s do this.” And he pushes the doors wide, and he steps forward and into the space.

He was braced to walk into a fight. There wasn’t the sound of any such from the other side of the doors, and as far as he knows the guards gave up their loyalty in exchange for their own well-being; but it would have been easy to overlook one, to miss a shadowy figure slipping inside. For all he can be sure of he and Shizuo are walking straight into an ambush of whatever weapons the Yellow Scarves can muster against them on short notice, and Izaya is prepared for that, for all his dramatic entrance. But there are no massed crowds, no wall of bared teeth and threatening weapons; there’s just a crowd of backs, a tight-packed wall of people before him, and on the other side of the space, up on a platform to stand above everyone else, the man from the alley, one hand upraised as if he’s in the midst of inciting the gang before him into some action. His mouth is still open, his jaw slack as if in expectation of some words that fail to form to clarity in the wake of Izaya’s interruption; and Izaya steps clear of the doors, and lifts his arms wide as he beams out at the group just beginning to turn to face him with brows knotted with confusion and jaws tightening on anger.

“Good evening!” he says, speaking loudly so his voice will carry even through the crowd, even without the advantage of elevation the man at the front of the gang holds. The rest are turning towards him, their attention carried as much by the focus of their leader at the front as by Izaya’s voice; Izaya smiles at them all, letting his expression drag wide over his face with as much sincere happiness as he can possibly convey in the span of a single moment. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your little party, but I’m afraid I have business that simply cannot wait. You see, a week ago someone had the bad idea to try to shoot me in an alleyway, and did successfully shoot my bodyguard.” He lifts a hand to gesture over his shoulder to Shizuo, who steps up alongside him just as the doors to the warehouse clang shut behind them. “I’m sure all of you understand we need to have a talk with the attacker to set a few things straight.”

“Yeah,” someone from the middle of the crowd says, shouting from far enough back that they apparently are under the illusion of safe anonymity. “What kind of things?”

Izaya lifts his head to give the crowd his brightest, warmest, least threatening smile. “First off,” he says, lifting his hand to make a point of his index finger. “I’m Orihara Izaya.” There’s a hiss that runs through the crowd, a single, unified motion as everyone draws back at once; Izaya’s smile doesn’t flicker, his hand doesn’t waver.

“Second.” Another finger, held high so all can see. “He’s Heiwajima Shizuo.” Izaya can see dozens of eyes shift from him to Shizuo over his shoulder, can watch the first wave of unadulterated fear flicker openly over the faces before him. There’s a satisfaction to that, a hum of gratification that he might linger in, under other circumstances; but he’s only made it to his second item, and the grand finale is yet to come.

“Third.” His hand comes down, his finger directs those rapt gazes back towards the front, where their leader is still standing dumbstruck and gaping at the edge of the platform. “He’s the one who shot us.” Izaya waits for a moment, just long enough to let this revelation sink in; and then he lets his hand drop to his side so he can slide it into the pocket of his jacket and adopt a lounge of put-upon calm. “The only question that remains is how far your loyalty to your leader runs, and whether you’re going to move or whether we’ll have to go through you to get to him.”

It’s the best argument Izaya has to offer. He can see the effect of it in the faces before him: in the wide eyes that flinch back from his friendly smile, in the way the gang members nearest to Shizuo are pressing back in an attempt to lose themselves in the crowd that has become a wall, now, with the members’ communal desire to not be the first in Shizuo’s line of sight. And it’s in the turning heads, the gazes looking back towards that leader stranded by his own volition on the stage in front of everyone before they swing back to Shizuo and Izaya standing in a clear space of fear by the door. If there is anything that can break them, Izaya thinks, the show he has just put on will do it; he can almost see the mob wavering on the brink of falling to his side, on the cusp of collapsing out of the shared strength of a gang and into the mindless panic that comes with an uncontrolled horde. All it will take is one person giving way to retreat, or a more idiotic one lunging forward and right into the weight of Shizuo’s fist; for a moment it seems inevitable, as if their victory is both assured and immediate.

It’s then that the leader speaks.

“Bullshit,” he shouts, his voice shrill and strained but loud enough to carry, to rattle through the tension in the room and bring those heads turning back towards him, to pull the energy of the space in to focus on himself once more. “I  _shot_  Heiwajima Shizuo last week. That’s an imposter, he’s just trying to psych us out.”

“Yeah,” someone says, a voice low and rough enough that it’s audible over the hum of uncertainty in the crowd. “Horada took out that Heiwajima monster, I saw ‘im!”

“You trying to scare us?”

“Think the Yellow Scarves flinch so easy?”

“We’re not a kid gang anymore” and just like that the decision is certain, the conclusion written in the energy of the mob as they turn back on Shizuo and Izaya, as those uncertain expressions harden into the anger that spells their own doom, if they only knew.

Izaya heaves a heavy sigh. “Suit yourself,” he says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” And then he draws his hand free of his pocket, and swings the blade of his knife open, and the mob moves in as if on his cue, responding to the display of his weapon like he’s personally stabbed one of them. It’s a wall of humanity, a barrier of broad shoulders and looming glares that Izaya would be swallowed by, however rapidly he brandished his knife; but then, his knife isn’t the only weapon he brought to this fight.

Shizuo’s first blow hits like a shock wave. It’s just one person in front of his fist, just a simple punch landing against the man’s shoulder; but the force is enough to knock him back into his neighbors, and to knock those off their feet, and then it’s cascading out, toppling dozens of gang members off-balance just by the one impact. There’s a roar of sound, shouts and exclamations coming too fast for Izaya to pick out individual voices; and then “It  _is_  Heiwajima” and the room descends into chaos almost instantly.

It’s hard to tell what’s going on in the space. There are too many people for the crowd to clarify into factions; no one can move rapidly, no matter how panicked or vicious they may be. But Izaya can make a guess based on his understanding of the room, on the taste of the energy that filled it a moment before. Most of the crowd is ready to fight Shizuo exactly as he is, in spite of the danger presented by his infamous strength and flaring temper; they’re part of a crowd, they tell themselves, even Heiwajima Shizuo can’t take on a hundred at once. But the front line is flinching back as every individual tries to force someone else to be the first to take the blow of those hits; and in the uncertainty Shizuo has his pick of opponents without waiting for the damage of a blow to land on himself. And then there are the cowards, the ones who were ready to fight a substitute but have gone into a panic at the reality; they’re struggling in the midst of humanity around them, straining for the exit just over Izaya’s shoulders even as the rest of the crowd around them tightens to crush down against Shizuo himself. It’s an impossible task to break free, moving against the force of so many as they are; and then there’s the fact that Izaya is still standing in front of the door, with the open edge of his blade ready to catch anyone unwary enough to draw close to him.

It’s more manageable than he expected. The majority of the crowd is caught up around Shizuo, either in rushing forward towards him or trying to get out of the way of the swing of his blows; there are only a few who glance Izaya’s way, and fewer of those who decide it’s worth taking on the apparent lesser threat he offers. Izaya disabuses them of that idea swiftly, drawing the edge of his bared blade across chest or hands or swinging arms alike; even those few cases where he’s up against a similar weapon are rapidly dispatched by the simple expedient of having his own clear space to move. Izaya is moving smoothly, letting the doors at his back hold off the possibility of being surrounded while his knife keeps any interested attackers well at bay; he feels bright, as brilliant as if he’s glowing with the illumination of the adrenaline coursing through him from the excitement, from the danger, from the sense of power that runs through him with every enemy he pushes off, with every skidding draw of blade-on-blade that ends in his victory. He’s grinning without realizing it, the expression spreading across his face as easily as he shifts his grip on his blade, as smoothly as his steps fall against the cement floor underfoot; and then he sees the swing of a blade out of the corner of his eye, and when he pivots to meet it his attention locks onto the glow of scarlet eyes before his blade catches the weight of the scissors his opponent is wielding.

There’s more force behind the blow than there ought to be. It’s a makeshift weapon, not built for the kind of use the other is putting it to; Izaya ought to be able to throw it off and swing in for a quick, combat-ending blow to the other’s arm or shoulder or wrist. But his opponent is bearing down against the support, leaning in in a mad, manic way that presses the whole of his body weight in on Izaya before him; and quick though he is, Izaya isn’t at all sure he can match the reflexes he knows come with those glowing eyes. All he can do is push back, throwing the whole of his strength into holding off whatever parasitic power is carried at the edge of those scissors; and then the man’s head tilts, those scarlet eyes fix full on Izaya’s, and he speaks as casually as if they’re passing on a sidewalk, with no indication of the strain in his weapon in his voice.

“Orihara Izaya,” he says. The words are calm, level, utterly stripped of any indication of emotion; he sounds almost mechanical, as if he’s borrowing the words from a high-tech robot that hasn’t quite smoothed out the pauses between each enunciated syllable. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Great,” Izaya manages, aiming for something to match the other’s preternatural calm. He’s not entirely sure he’s effective, but then, he’s not sure his audience would notice even if he did manage it. “Everyone’s out for revenge today, it seems.”

The man’s forehead creases, his brows drawing together on slow-forming confusion before he shakes his head with the jerky motion a puppet might have. “No,” he says. “Not revenge” and he lets the pressure on the scissors go so suddenly Izaya nearly loses his balance for the abrupt absence of resistance. He catches himself as fast as he can, retreating back over a step to regain enough distance to protect himself as he lifts his knife back up into the expectation of violence; but the other doesn’t come after him, doesn’t make any motion to close the space between them again. He just lets his hand fall to his side, the scissors that were such a danger moments ago now rendered trivial and nonthreatening by the slack weight of his arm and the almost disinterested grip of his fingers at the handle.

“Not fighting,” he says again, shaking his head once more as if to underscore this point. “Just Mother.” Izaya can hear the capital letter on the noun; it’s in the almost-worshipful tone the man adopts, clear enough that it would stand out even if it weren’t the first thing like emotion that has made it into his voice. The man tips his head and lifts his free hand to point directly towards the door of the warehouse. “Mother wants to talk to you.”

Izaya keeps his knife up, keeps his stance balanced. This doesn’t look like a threat, doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the riot happening behind him as Shizuo works through the crowd with the force of his fists; but it would only take a moment of inattention for a blade to catch at his skin, it would only take a flicker of distraction for him to feel the power of that red light firsthand. “Talk,” he repeats, rocking back over his heels to test his balance. “And is that all  _she_  wants to do?”

The man tips his head to the side again. It’s like he’s listening to something, as if he’s cuing in to some signal at a frequency Izaya can’t hear; it makes Izaya’s skin crawl with discomfort just to see. “She wants to--” He breaks off sharply, as if words have failed him. His eyes gaze through Izaya as if the other isn’t there at all.

“She wants to talk,” he says again, finally, like he’s fighting his way back to solid ground. “Mother wants to talk to Orihara Izaya.” The man’s gaze slides back into focus on Izaya before him; his head straightens back to upright. “Will you talk to her?”

Izaya considers his options. There’s the brawl going on around him: a mess of punches and kicks and open blades, all of it too chaotic and unruly for his own style of fighting to do more than barely keep him safe. Shizuo is in the midst of it, clearing a space for himself with every swing of his fists; but he hardly needs Izaya’s support, as things stand. Izaya will be all but useless here, even if he is able to successfully keep himself unhurt; and outside, on the other side of those warehouse doors, there’s the possibility of information, an offering for a conversation Izaya has been thinking of for some time, the potential for answers to questions he hasn’t yet been able to resolve on his own.

He glances back to Shizuo again, clearing a space for himself in the midst of the crowd of violence surrounding him. Shizuo is beautiful, like this, overflowing with the raw power that he usually keeps on such a tight leash, that he usually spends all his time fighting into submission. Izaya would like to stay, would like to keep watching, if only for the aesthetic appreciation of the moment; but the sight reminds him of a wave of shadowy figures in a park, and of the press of strange, inhuman desire crackling electric in the air, and he wants answers for that, craves an understanding of that moment for his own satisfaction. Shizuo would want him to wait, Shizuo would want to offer his own steadfast protection in place of the fragile armor Izaya’s own knife makes; but Shizuo is busy, and Izaya has to know.

“Okay,” he says, and he looks back to the stranger in front of him, meeting that uncanny crimson gaze without flinching. “I’ll go.” He lifts his knife at his side and gestures it through the air in a brief mockery of a salute to whatever force is watching him from behind that stolen gaze. “Looking forward to meeting you, Mother.” And he steps sideways, and reaches out for the door, and slips out and into the cold outside and the answers waiting there for him.


	24. Standoff

The girl is waiting in the shadows of the warehouse.

She’s easy to see. Izaya knows roughly what he’s looking for, even if he’s not yet entirely clear on the details; compared to the broad shoulders of the adult men that fill the interior of the building, the lesser height and slimmer frame of a high school girl is an easy shadow to pick out in contrast. She must know he’s coming -- the red-eyed mob seem to share information too easily for it to be independent action, which means there’s some element of telepathy at least -- but she doesn’t lift her head as Izaya steps in nearer, doesn’t even move to steady herself out of the lean she has against the wall behind her. She just keeps her head down, her chin ducked forward so her face is half-hidden in the open curve of her jacket hood; but Izaya still knows who she is, even without having to crane his neck to see the giveaway details of her profile. He steps in close enough to be seen, close enough to be heard without shouting; and then he stops, and braces his feet, and slides both hands into his pockets.

“So,” he says, pitching his voice loud and unflinching into the space between them. “Are we going to pretend we don’t know each other, or can we skip the introductions and get down to business, Miss Sonohara?”

The girl’s head comes up at once. The distant glow of streetlights catches at the round lenses of her glasses to cast them into white walls for a breath of time before the flare clears to give way to the wide dark of the eyes behind them. Izaya tips his head to the side and lets his smile pull wider at his lips.

“You know who I am,” he says. “And I obviously know who you are. So what kind of deal are you looking to make?”

Sonohara Anri’s forehead creases, her shoulders tip back. “How…” Her voice is softer than Izaya expected it to be, almost a whisper before she swallows hard and braces herself in place. “How do you know I want to make a deal?”

“Because you’re talking to me,” Izaya answers at once. “You’re a smart girl, Anri-chan. Don’t insult us both by pretending otherwise.”

There’s a pause, a moment while Anri stares up at Izaya with her weight still rocked back over her heels, with her shoulders still sketching out the possibility of flight for the rest of her body to follow. Izaya just watches her, his thumb against the handle of the knife in his pocket and his whole stance perfectly level and perfectly calm, without any of the visible tension that might push the strain of the moment into violence. It’s just for a heartbeat, a breath of a pause while Anri stalls her action; and then her weight comes back onto the flat of her feet, her shoulders straighten, and her entire body comes forward to face Izaya fully. Her chin comes up, her eyes lock with his; and there’s no fear behind them now, none of that cringing alarm that was so swamping her position before.

“Orihara-san,” she says, and her voice is clearer too, brought forth from whatever frightened persona she was putting on before and into what must be its natural range, with a depth to the sound that carries far more certainty once stripped of the tremor that was there before. “What are your intentions towards the Yellow Scarves?”

Izaya’s eyebrows jump up. “Is that really what you care about?” He lets his gaze slide over the unadorned black of the girl’s outfit, lingering as if to draw attention to the notable lack of the pale scarf those inside are wearing. “You don’t look like you’re too keen to claim the title of member for yourself. Or am I getting in the way of your infiltration mission? How many of the guys inside are yours by now?”

“Only a handful,” Anri answers without any hesitation. “I’m not trying to take over the group, I don’t care about the gangs in the city. I just want to keep an eye on the rest of them.”

“The rest of who?” Izaya asks. “The other Saikas? They’re not all yours, are they?”

Anri shakes her head sharply. “Of course not,” she says, sounding almost disgusted at the idea. “Those belong to--” and she breaks off sharply, closing her mouth tight on a frown as if she’s trying to hold back the name that was about to spill free.

Izaya snorts a laugh. “Niekawa Haruna,” he drawls, letting the words go teasing on his tongue. “I’m an information broker. I’m not entirely out of the loop when it comes to the goings-on of the city.”

It’s a clear win for him, a victory in the verbal pacing they’re doing around each other. It’s to Anri’s credit that she barely flinches, that she just lifts her chin and collects herself back into confidence in the span of a breath. “Right,” she says, without any hesitation on the words. “You know what she was doing. Saika can’t be controlled if you let her just take over your mind; you have to keep her locked away. Niekawa-senpai is just a host for Saika if she lets her run loose like that.”

“Unlike you,” Izaya says without breaking eye contact with Anri in front of him. “You’re in control of your own monster, is that how it is? Was cutting Niekawa part of your grand scheme to control the demon, then?”

Anri shakes her head again. “I didn’t cut Niekawa to begin with,” she says. “I don’t know how she got a Saika of her own. I’ve known about all the children my Saika has made ever since I first--” and then she cuts herself off sharply again, her gaze flickering back to lock onto Izaya’s face as she frowns hard. “You knew that too.”

Izaya lets his smile pull wider. “What gave me away?” he drawls.

Anri rocks back on her heels, almost scowling up at Izaya. “What are you doing here,” she says more than asks. “What do you  _want_?”

Izaya lifts both shoulders in an offhand shrug. “I’m just curious. I like to keep up on what’s going on in my city.”

Anri stares up at him. “ _Your_  city.”

“Yes,” Izaya says. “My city.” He tips his head to the side and flashes a smile that feels sincere on his lips and he knows will look like a threat to his observer. “Does your demon sword not like that very much?”

“It doesn’t matter what Saika likes,” Anri says. She’s closing herself back off; some of that simmering distrust that was so clear in her face for a moment is drawing away and back, hiding itself once more behind the absolute composure of her facade of a harmless high school girl. Izaya is impressed in spite of himself; he’s rarely seen anyone fight their way back to calm after losing it to begin with. “I’m the one who’s in control.”

“I’m sure you are,” Izaya drawls. “Is that what Saika tells you?”

“No,” Anri says at once. “That’s what  _I_  tell me.”

Izaya’s smile drags wider. “A way to keep the demons at bay?” he asks. “Tell yourself that you’re in control, that you hold the hilt and not the blade, that you make the decisions about who and why to cut. Are you sure you’re not being swayed by your own Saika? Would you even know if you were?”

Anri doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “I wouldn’t,” she says, her tone as absolutely calm as if she’s reciting a speech, as if she’s reading from a script. “I would have no idea.” Her shoulder comes up in a shrug. “I could be like Niekawa-senpai even now.”

Izaya lifts his chin to consider the girl before him for a moment. She meets his gaze without flinching, without coloring with self-consciousness or ducking her head to try to hide from his attention; there’s more strength behind her eyes than he expected there to be, more certainty in her stance than he had seen before. “Have you cut Masaomi or Mikado yet?”

Anri’s jaw sets, her shoulders tense. For a moment Izaya almost thinks she’s going to lunge at him. “No.”

“Good,” Izaya says. “If you do you’ll have more to answer to than Saika.”

Anri considers him. “You mean you.”

“No,” Izaya says. “I mean Shizu-chan.” He tips his head towards the continuing sounds of combat from the inside of the warehouse; there’s a rattle exactly in time with the gesture, as if of someone being flung hard against the metal of the walls. “He’s taken on Masaomi as something of a little brother. You really don’t want to have him on your bad side.”

Anri’s head dips. “I don’t think I want to be on your bad side either.”

“You’re not,” Izaya says evenly. “Not yet. It was the other Saikas that came after Shizu-chan, right? You’re in my good graces for your help with that. So long as you keep your demon sword under control you and I are on good terms. I might even offer you some information, should you ever need it. I owe you for putting a stop to that mob in the park.” He purses his lips as if in thought. “Speaking of, are those all people you control, now? Just how much of the city is under your power?”

“I don’t control them unless I have to,” Anri says. “Usually I leave them alone to live their own lives. It’s better for everyone that way.”

“But you  _can_ ,” Izaya clarifies. “If you had to. You can make them obey you.”

“If I have to,” Anri agrees. “That’s the way it works. I don’t know how to undo it once someone’s been cut.” She shifts her weight back over her heels as she gazes consideration at Izaya before her. “It can be helpful to have control when I need it.”

“I can understand that,” Izaya says with deliberate cheer. “I play in something similar with information instead.”

Anri stares at him. “Is that why Kida-kun is so afraid of you?”

“Probably,” Izaya says. “He doesn’t need to be, though. I really do have his best interests at heart.”

Anri’s chin comes up, her mouth draws down onto a frown. “I don’t think I believe you.”

“Few ever do.” Izaya draws his hands free of his pockets and lets them hang heavy at his sides. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

Anri’s weight shifts back again. Her far arm is almost entirely hidden behind her, now. “I don’t have to take your word for it.”

“I know,” Izaya says evenly. “You could come at me with that demon blade of yours and try to take control of me, right? It’s tempting, isn’t it, having me tied up in your puppet strings to pull at a moment’s notice. You could run the city yourself, if you played your cards right.” He lets his smile ease, lets the weight of it fall into flat-line sincerity instead. “I can assure you that would be a very,  _very_  bad idea.”

“Why?” Anri asks. “You wouldn’t even realize it was happening.”

“No,” Izaya agrees. “But Shizu-chan would.” He jerks his head towards the warehouse again; Anri’s gaze slides to follow, her head turning to focus on the continued sounds of shouts and banging from inside. “You’re going to have a much harder time controlling him than you would me. And if he realizes someone else is meddling with me…” Izaya lets his words trail off so the noise from inside can speak for him. “You and Saika aren’t going to much like what comes next.”

“I can take him on,” Anri says. “I’m not as fragile as I look.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Izaya says. “Still, wouldn’t it be better not to risk it?” He lifts his hand from his side to offer it palm-up over the space between them along with another flash of a smile. “I do my best work as a partner instead of a slave.”

Anri doesn’t smile back in answer. She just stares at Izaya for a moment, her eyes dark with intensity; Izaya can’t get a read on her expression, no matter what he reaches for. Finally:

“Alright,” Anri says. There’s a soft, metallic sound, as of a blade sliding back into a sheath; it makes Izaya’s skin prickle and raises the hairs on the back of his neck as if in answer. “You had better not hurt Kida-kun or Ryuugamine-kun.”

“Believe me,” Izaya says, “I’m invested in keeping them from hurting themselves more than anything else.” He takes a step back, pivoting to face Anri fully as he lifts his hand from his side and ostentatiously slides the open blade of his knife back into the handle. “Lovely doing business with you. Give me a call if you ever need anything. Or send me a private message, that’ll work just as well.”

Anri blinks as some measure of her composure gives way to the blank of surprise. “What?”

“In the chatroom,” Izaya drawls with deliberate casualness. “The one on the Dollars site.” He lifts a hand to press against his face and draws his mouth into the show of a frown. “Do you mean to say you don’t remember me?”

“You’re one of the members?” Anri asks. Her composure is entirely gone now; she’s staring wide-eyed at Izaya like she’s never seen him before. “Who are you?”

“I can’t believe it,” Izaya sighs with mock unhappiness. “And after I thought we were friends.” He paces backwards, moving towards the doors of the warehouse without turning away from Anri still staring at him. “Who else is in the room that you don’t know about, I wonder?”

Anri’s forehead creases. “What are you talking about?”

“Just this,” Izaya says, and reaches out to catch a hand at the door of the warehouse. “Kanra-chan’s not the only chatroom user you know personally. If you’re really interested in protecting the people you care about, you’re going to need to engage with the world a little more.” He pulls open the door at the same time he flashes a grin and a wave to Anri. “See you!” And he ducks around the door and steps back inside to watch the finale of Shizuo enacting revenge for both of them on the presumed leader of the Yellow Scarves.

It might not be the most immediately helpful detail for Anri to make use of, but she, at least, seems to have a sense of self-preservation. If that can be carried over to her friends before they get themselves into worse trouble, Izaya can count that as two good deeds he’s managed tonight.


	25. Present

The rest of the fight is over rapidly.

The worst of it is over by the time Izaya returns to the warehouse. A sizeable minority of the crowd has made their escape outright or at least retreated to huddle in corners with all the display of defeat they can manage; of what remains, those not being held aside by Anri’s influence are on the floor, for the most part, or putting up a last grand effort that Shizuo all but walks through like it’s not there at all. Izaya has very little to do in his position by the doorway; after a few minutes he begins to make his way across the now-cleared space, picking his way around fallen forms and rebuffing any desperate attacks with the edge of the knife braced in his hand. By the time he’s coming up the edge of the platform Horada is standing on Shizuo has caught up with the other man and stripped away what manner of bodyguards he has; Izaya climbs the steps to the platform at the same time Horada cringes away and back from Shizuo’s approach, both hands held up as if that’s likely to do anything to protect him.

“Please,” the man is saying, almost babbling as Shizuo closes with him. “I didn’t know it was you, I swear, if I had known I would have never--”

“Tried to shoot me?” Izaya asks from over the man’s shoulder. Horada jumps visibly, twisting sharply to look back at his unexpected audience; Izaya flashes his teeth in a smile with no warmth behind it at all. “Or are you going to claim you didn’t know who I was either?”

“I,” Horada gasps. He sounds like he can’t find air, like he’s drowning right where he stands. “I--I--it was the leader, I swear, I’m just one of the members, it was--”

“You know,” Shizuo says, his voice rough and dark in the back of his throat as he steps forward. “Lying is a terrible habit.”

“You should really try to break yourself of that,” Izaya says. “Though it seems like in this case you need some help.” He steps forward, closing with Horada’s trembling stance; Horada flinches back from Izaya as the other approaches, but Izaya doesn’t reach out to swing his knife in against the other, doesn’t draw the blood his sense of vengeance is demanding. He just reaches out with his free hand to catch his fingers at the pocket of Horada’s jeans and reach in for the weight there. Horada whimpers as the gun slides free, squeezing his eyes shut in abject horror as Izaya lifts it up to consider the weight of it; Izaya can almost taste the other’s panic in the air, can feel it like a live wire snapping and crackling in the space around them.

“It’s a horrible thing, to point a weapon like this at someone,” Izaya says. “Only think what would have happened if you had hit me instead of Shizuo. You would have landed me in the hospital, you know. You might have even killed me.” That gets a growl from Shizuo, a low note of raw panic that probably sounds like rage to Horada; Izaya doesn’t try to explain as the other cringes back and away.

“You’re lucky it was Heiwajima Shizuo in front of you,” Izaya says. “Could you shrug off a bullet so easily?” He lets the weight of the gun drop down in front of him, levelling it to point squarely at the midpoint of Horada’s chest. “Want to find out?”

There’s no chance for Horada to answer. He’s staring full at Izaya, his eyes wide and all but unseeing on the terror so clearly filling him; and it’s then that Shizuo steps, and swings, and hits the other with a punch solidly against the middle of his ribcage. Izaya can see the air rush out of Horada’s lungs, can see the other’s eyes go wide in the split-second of the initial impact; and then he’s flying backwards, and Izaya is letting the gun in his hand drop back to his side at the same time Shizuo straightens and collects himself back into his usual calm.

“Good work, senpai,” Izaya says as Shizuo shakes his head as if to clear the distraction of violence from his vision and flexes his fingers out of the clenched-tight fists he’s been maintaining for what must have been almost a half-hour and feels like the span of a lifetime. “I’d say you got your revenge most thoroughly.”

Shizuo rolls his shoulders out and leans back into something approximating comfort in spite of their position surrounded by the fallen forms of his opponents. It makes him look casual, confident, as if he regularly single-handedly fights the mob of an entire gang bare-handed without ending up with more than a scratch marring his skin; it makes Izaya’s blood run warmer, makes Izaya’s breathing catch on the tension of heat he’s been carrying since they left their apartment.

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, his tone as perfectly calm as his stance. “I guess we’re about done with the Yellow Scarves.” He turns his head to look back over his shoulder at Izaya; his gaze drops immediately to the weapon in the other’s hand, his mouth drags down onto a frown like he’s just remembering to react now. “I can’t believe you were going to  _shoot_  him.”

“I wasn’t,” Izaya says, and lifts the gun up over his head to point at the ceiling before he squeezes down hard on the trigger. Shizuo flinches, rocking back in anticipation of the explosion to follow; but there’s no burst of air, no jolting recoil against the brace of Izaya’s wrist, just a  _click_  as the hammer rattles back against the empty chamber. “It’s not loaded.” He lets it fall to his side again. “Horada would have known that himself, if he had had the brain cells left to think at all.”

Shizuo heaves a sigh. “You’re a bad person, Izaya.”

Izaya tips his head and beams up at Shizuo. “I know,” he says. “Come on, let’s go find a police box. I’d like to turn in this dangerous weapon we found in an abandoned warehouse as soon as possible, don’t you?” Shizuo rolls his eyes at this little show, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips, and when Izaya steps in to take the other’s hand and tug him towards the door he follows without hesitation, all the unflinching strength of the violence he turned on the gang members bled away like it was never there at all, or maybe like it was ice to melt at the least touch of Izaya’s fingers. The thought of it warms Izaya’s heart and glows like radiance enough to light up the night around them, and he’s smiling as they leave the warehouse to make their way back towards one of the downtown police stations en route to returning to the familiar comforts of their apartment.

Izaya feels lighter than he has in days. There’s some shadow that has been hanging over him, some weight pressing down on his shoulders; freed of it he feels as if he might lift off the ground with every step, as if he could all but dance the whole way home. It speeds their steps and urges them faster along the darkened alleys than their normal pace would allow, and by the time they’re coming up on the fringes of the industrial district Shizuo is almost jogging at Izaya’s side, huffing amusement that is no less warm for the disbelief under the sound.

“You’re in a good mood,” he observes as Izaya swings them around a turn and through a pool of gold spilling from the streetlight overhead. “Is it just your usual delight at having a near-death experience, or do you find dismantling gangs particularly thrilling?”

“Neither,” Izaya says with perfect equanimity. “I’m simply pleased to know that vengeance has been served to wrongdoers.”

Shizuo snorts. “By me?”

“That’s right.” Izaya pivots on his heel, turning so suddenly Shizuo almost runs into him and has to throw out a hand to catch against Izaya’s shoulder to stop his forward motion in time. Izaya doesn’t move back by so much as an inch; he just turns his head up to beam at Shizuo as the other catches himself and looks down to meet his gaze. “You’re an instrument of justice, senpai. Doesn’t it make you happy to know that you’re making such an upstanding use of your monstrous gifts?”

Shizuo snorts. “I’m happy you’re happy,” he says, and lifts his hand from Izaya’s shoulder to touch against the very tip of the other’s nose. “You’ve barely smiled in a week from how worried you’ve been over me.”

“I haven’t been  _worried_ ,” Izaya protests. “I knew you were going to be fine all along.”

Shizuo’s eyebrow lifts. “Is that so?” he asks. “Is that why you were crying over me in that alley?”

“I wasn’t crying,” Izaya tells him. “It was the rain. I know you might not remember through the haze of pain, but it was definitely raining.”

“I remember the rain,” Shizuo says. “I also remember you looking at me like you expected me to collapse at any moment.”

Izaya lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “Well,” he says, “You  _had_  just--”

“Orihara-san?”

The voice startles Izaya right out of what he was saying in the gap between one heartbeat and the next. He had thought he was calm, had thought it was pure satisfaction coursing so warm and pleasant through his veins; but there must still be some measure of adrenaline crackling through him, because he’s twisting with record speed, pivoting to face the speaker before he’s managed to identify the voice. As jumpy as he is Shizuo is more so; he manages to take a full step forward almost without pausing, as if to interpose himself between Izaya and the newcomer before Izaya has even had a chance to offer a greeting. Izaya takes a breath, the hiss of it catching on instinctive panic in his chest; and then he blinks, and he sees who is it standing looking from one of them to the other, and he can hear Shizuo’s sigh of relief as clearly as he can see the other’s shoulders ease.

“Oh,” Shizuo says. “It’s you.”

Mikado blinks up at Shizuo, his eyes wide and bright in the illumination of the streetlight over the heads of the other two. His expression is innocent, his smile more confused than threatening as he looks from one of them to the other. He looks like he’s out for a walk, as if maybe he’s on his way to meet a friend for a cup of tea at some café; that expression doesn’t flicker even as he meets Izaya’s steady gaze.

“I didn’t expect to run into you again out here,” Mikado says, in the same bright tone he offered with his greeting. “How exciting!” He seems to collect himself back a little from the first bright glow of enthusiasm; when he laughs the sound is gently self-deprecating. “I’m sorry, you probably don’t remember me. We just met the once outside my school, I’m--”

“Ryuugamine Mikado,” Izaya finishes for him. He flashes a smile at Mikado and takes a half-step forward to bring himself out of the shadow of Shizuo’s initial protective motion. “Of course, I know who you are.”

Mikado huffs a laugh that warms the whole of his expression. “Ah, right, Masaomi knows you, right? I guess you know my name from him.”

Izaya shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You’re making something of a name for yourself, Mikado-kun.” He holds his smile as Mikado blinks with surprise at this claim. “It’s nice to meet you properly in person.”

Mikado’s smile looks a little more confused than otherwise, now, but it’s no less sincere for that. “Of course,” he says; and then he looks back up to Shizuo, and some of that initial starstruck delight returns to his eyes. “It’s really exciting to run into you out here like this! It must be my lucky night, to meet two of the urban legends of the city at once!”

Izaya’s laugh pitches bright and crystalline into the cool of the night. “Shizu-chan and I work as a team,” he says. “I think we’re no more than one urban legend combined, and most of that is him.” He tilts his head to flash a smile up at Shizuo; Shizuo meets this with a creased forehead and the start of a frown, but Izaya doesn’t wait to see what he might have to give by way of protest. He’s turning back to Mikado and tipping his head to the side in a deliberate show of curiosity instead as he makes a point of looking around at the shadows of their surroundings. “What are you doing out here anyway? You aren’t meeting one of your friends this late at night, are you?”

Mikado laughs. “Who, like Sonohara-san?” He shakes his head, still holding that smile at the corners of his mouth like a gift. “I’m sure she’s back at home asleep right now.”

Izaya hums. “I’m sure.”

“Anyway,” Mikado says, blinking rapidly as he looks back and forth between Shizuo and Izaya at once. “What are  _you_  doing here? Are you collecting information or something?”

“Oh no,” Izaya says. “Nothing so exciting.” He shifts his weight forward onto his leading foot; it’s a subtle movement, just enough to bring him ahead of Shizuo and draw Mikado’s gaze onto him. “We actually got a report that there was a gun out in one of these unused warehouses.” Mikado’s lashes dip, his eyes go dark with interest; Izaya holds the other’s gaze with a steady smile as he brings the gun up from his side to show it. Mikado’s head turns at once, his focus swinging around to cling to the gun with intent fascination; Izaya watches his face, watching the shift in Mikado’s expression as he goes on speaking. “Luckily it doesn’t look like anyone got shot with it, so we can just take it straight in to the police without any problems.”

“Oh yeah,” Mikado says. “That is lucky.” He doesn’t look away from the gun; he’s barely blinking, as far as Izaya can tell.

Izaya keeps his attention fixed on Mikado’s eyes, on the wide bright of them as he stares at the weapon in Izaya’s hand. “It is kind of out of our way,” he lies; and then he extends his hand towards Mikado, very slightly, just enough to bring the gun closer to the other than it is to Izaya. “Is there a police station on your way home, by chance?”

Shizuo hisses from over Izaya’s shoulder, a sharp sound of involuntary reaction; but Mikado doesn’t even glance at him, doesn’t seem to hear this response at all. He’s staring at the gun, his eyes drinking in the illumination of the streetlight and his lips parted on breathless excitement; Izaya can almost see his cheeks flushing, can almost see the possibilities flickering behind the dark of the other’s eyes. He holds perfectly still, not moving to draw back the offer or to lean into it; he just waits, the gun in his hand between himself and Mikado and Mikado with his whole attention fixed on it. Izaya can see the words forming themselves at Mikado’s lips, can see the tension in the other’s arm as he thinks about moving, as he almost lifts his hand up and out; and then Mikado’s fingers curl into a fist, and his weight rocks back over his heels, and Izaya is drawing the gun back towards himself even as the other shakes his head in negation.

“No,” Mikado says. “I mean, there is, yes, but I shouldn’t.” He lifts his gaze back to Izaya’s face and flashes a brief, apologetic smile. “Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

Izaya shakes his head. “It’s no problem,” he says, and slides the gun to weight heavy in the pocket of his coat. “I’ll just have Shizu-chan take me out to dinner or something to make it worth the trip.” That gets him a vague smile from Mikado, more confused than entertained; but Izaya is moving on without waiting for a more appropriate response. “It’s after curfew by now, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be getting back home?”

“Is it?” Mikado lifts his head to look up at the sky overhead, as if he’s only just noticed the dark of night that has been lying over the city for the last two hours. “Oh. Yeah, I guess it is.” He slides his hands into his pockets and shrugs his shoulders up around his ears as he smiles at Izaya and Shizuo before him. “I guess I should start heading back soon.”

“We could walk you,” Izaya suggests. “If you wanted the company.”

Mikado laughs and lifts a hand to wave aside this suggestion. “Oh, gosh, no, that’s fine, I can find my own way!” His gaze slides off Izaya’s face to flicker over the other’s shoulder and towards the warehouses again; but it’s only for a moment, and by the time he’s fitting his hand back into his pocket he’s already taking a step back to turn away. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“I’m sure you will,” Izaya says. “Safe travels.” Mikado flashes another smile, as warm and sincere as the first; and then he ducks his head, and turns away, and heads back towards the lights of the city in the distance.

Neither Shizuo nor Izaya speak for a long moment after Mikado has left. Izaya can feel Shizuo’s gaze on him without turning around; but he doesn’t speak, just keeps waiting until Mikado turns a corner and is lost to view. Shizuo draws a long inhale, and heaves a sigh; and then, finally, he speaks. “I can’t believe you were going to give him the gun.”

“Why, senpai,” Izaya says without turning around. “How do you know he wouldn’t have taken it right to the police like a good honor student?” He doesn’t wait for the answer of Shizuo’s loaded silence in reply. “He was coming out here for the Yellow Scarves.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Do you think he knows about Kida?”

“I think he knows a lot more than Masaomi-kun thinks he does.”

There’s another moment of quiet. “Why did you offer him the gun?”

“Because,” Izaya says. “I wanted to see if he would take it.”

Shizuo’s breath rushes out of him in a huff. “What if he had?”

Izaya lets his answer stall for just a moment, just long enough for the cold quiet of the night to spread out into the calm of their conversation. “He didn’t,” he says, finally. “That’s what’s important.”

“What if he does?” Shizuo asks. “Someday?”

Izaya draws both hands out of his pockets, leaving the gun and his knife to pull against the cloth as he spreads both arms out wide and turns his head up to look at the stars overhead. “That’s for someday,” he says; and then he turns on his heel, pivoting around to face Shizuo behind him again and flash him a bright, brilliant smile. “Right now it’s today.”

Shizuo huffs a breath that starts out resignation and turns into warmth as his mouth curves up onto a smile he utterly fails to hold back. “What does that mean?”

Izaya takes a step in to close the distance between himself and Shizuo entirely and return them to the proximity they had when Mikado arrived. “That means our work for the day is almost finished.” He lifts a hand to touch against Shizuo’s hair and push it back from the other’s face; Shizuo lets himself be urged without trying to repress the smile spreading across his lips. “We beat the bad guys and got our revenge.” He braces his hand at the back of Shizuo’s neck and tips his head up to meet the soft of the dark eyes watching him. “Now we get our happy ending.”

Shizuo huffs amusement to this; but he’s reaching out to brace at Izaya’s hips anyway, his hands coming in to settle just against the edge of the other’s jeans. “For today, at least.”

Izaya flashes a grin. “It’s important to live for the moment,” he says. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that, senpai?”

Shizuo doesn’t answer him with words; but from the way his mouth fits against Izaya’s, it would seem they are in perfect accord on this point.


	26. Encore

“So,” Shizuo says from the other side of the bathroom, speaking louder than he needs to to be heard over the splash of the shower. “It’s over, then, right?”

“Mm.” Izaya presses his forearm flat against the edge of the bathtub before him so he can pillow his head against the damp warmth of his skin as he gazes at Shizuo lifting his head to run water through the gold-wet tangle of his hair. “For now, at least.”

Shizuo glances sideways at Izaya. “That’s very reassuring,” he says before shutting his eyes and turning his face back up to the spray of the shower. “What are you plotting now?”

“I’m not plotting anything,” Izaya says. “Don’t you have any faith in me at all, senpai?”

Shizuo grins without opening his eyes. “Not when it comes to this,” he says, and leans back out of the water so he can run a hand through the wet weight of his hair and shake the droplets out of his eyes. The motion draws the light overhead down across the bare lines of his chest and the casual tension at his stomach as he braces himself in place; Izaya’s attention follows the light to wander across the shift of Shizuo’s shoulder, the span of his chest, the darker mark of a healing scar at his side where he was shot. There’s no trace of pain there, no flinching in Shizuo’s motion or tension in his voice; the reassurance makes Izaya smile where he’s leaning hard against the edge of the bathtub.

“I don’t have any plans in place,” Izaya says, with more-or-less sincerity on the words. “You know I’m not usually the one causing all this drama. I just handle the fallout.”

Shizuo snorts. “You were ready to hand a high schooler a  _gun_.”

“An unloaded gun,” Izaya specifies. “Which he didn’t take.” He shifts in the bath, turning to let the support of the water take more of his weight until he barely needs to hold himself up at all. “Even if he had, what he did with it after that would have been his doing, not mine.”

“His doing,” Shizuo says, and turns his head to look at Izaya again as he leans forward so the shower can catch water in a sheet across his back. “Which you would have enabled.”

“Mm.” Izaya watches the water splash over Shizuo’s shoulders for a minute, tracing the ripples and cascade of it with his eyes while his mind wanders down far less pleasant routes. “He’s going to find trouble for himself eventually.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says. “That doesn’t mean you have to push him into it yourself.”

Izaya lifts a wet shoulder into a shrug. “At least this way I’ll know what he’s doing before he finds some new and exciting trouble of his own.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh without lifting his head. “You sound like I did in high school. Is this kid really that much like you?”

Izaya smiles at Shizuo’s profile. “There’s no one like me,” he says airily. He lifts his free arm from the weight of the water and up and out to drape over the edge of the bathtub. “Are you planning to waste water sitting there all day, or…?”

Shizuo snorts and tips his head to look at Izaya leaning over the edge of the bathtub. “Sure,” Shizuo says. “It’s wasting water you’re worried about.”

“Not exactly,” Izaya says. “I’m just saying if you  _are_  going to waste it you might as well be doing something more fun than washing your hair.”

Shizuo’s eyebrows jump up, his breath spills from him in a disbelieving laugh. “It’s been  _fifteen minutes_.”

“Not true,” Izaya says. “I’ve been watching you shower for almost an hour.” He lifts his perfectly smooth fingertips to demonstrate. “I’m turning into a prune.”

“You are not,” Shizuo says. “I already got you off once as soon as we came in the front door, are you honestly ready for more already?”

Izaya hums in the back of his throat and tightens his hold on the edge of the bathtub so he can arch his back and rock himself in against the smooth surface before him. His cock twitches at his hips as half-hard interest starts to swell into true arousal. “I can’t help it,” he says without lifting his head from the edge of the bath or looking away from Shizuo. “You destroyed an entire gang by yourself, you know how hot your monstrous strength gets me.”

“That was what the  _sex_  was for,” Shizuo says. “Are you really that insatiable?”

Izaya shrugs again. “Apparently you’re just irresistible,” he purrs. “Is that a problem? Do you not want to take advantage of your boyfriend twice in the same night?”  
“It’s not--” Shizuo starts, and then stops himself, his face coloring to a pink that can’t be explained by the glow of the warm water splashing over him. “We don’t have any lube in here.”

“I’m still wet from before,” Izaya tells him. “You wouldn’t even have to do anything, senpai, if you come over here you could just pick me up and be inside me in a matter of seconds.” He arches his back again; his cock is starting to ache, now, demanding more friction than the slick side of the bathtub can offer. Shizuo is staring at him from the other side of the bathroom, his cheeks turning towards scarlet now but his lips pressed tight together like he’s trying to hold back whatever it is he might say in response. Izaya lets his lips curve up onto a smile, lets himself lean a little farther over the edge of the bathtub.

“Come on, Shizu-chan,” he purrs, and reaches out to gesture towards Shizuo. “Do you want me to beg for it?” He flutters his lashes and tenses his throat, straining his chest until the next words come out as a groan. “ _Please_ , senpai, I want you to--”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo blurts, and he’s turning away, ducking his head as if in an utterly futile attempt to hide the blush suffusing his features. Izaya would complain about this; but Shizuo’s reaching out to shut the shower off at once, and the sound of the splash cutting to silence has him grinning victory even before Shizuo pushes to his feet to come over to the bathtub. His cock is standing out hard at his hips, the dark-flushed length of it catching the light as he strides forward over the intervening distance; Izaya lets his gaze slide down over the other’s body as Shizuo approaches, dipping his lashes into the weight of appreciation as the other comes up towards the edge of the bathtub.

“You are a menace,” Shizuo says, pausing at the edge of the tub to extend both hands palm-up towards Izaya. Izaya pushes up off the lip he’s been leaning on and reaches up to clasp his fingers around Shizuo’s wrists as he offers the wet of his arms for the other to hold; Shizuo’s fingers tighten to gentle cuffs, Shizuo’s arms flex, and Izaya is lifted up out of the water and onto his feet with almost no effort at all on his part. It makes him smile even before he’s turning his head up to bump his nose to Shizuo’s and tip his chin up into expectation.

“That’s a bit of an upgrade,” he says, purring the words into the edge of seduction against Shizuo’s lips. “I thought I was a brat.”

“You are,” Shizuo says. “You’re always a brat” and he punctuates with a kiss against Izaya’s mouth. Shizuo’s lips are wet from the shower, his whole body is glowing with heat; Izaya can taste the clean warmth of the water against the other’s mouth even before he parts his lips to lick in for more. Shizuo capitulates to that without protest, opening his mouth for Izaya without letting his hold on the other’s arms go; by the time they pull away Izaya’s lashes feel twice as heavy as they did, and when he looks up Shizuo’s cheeks have faded into a glow more of anticipation than of embarrassment.

“Come here,” Izaya says, and takes a step backwards to make space as he pulls to urge Shizuo into the bath with him. Shizuo steps in carefully, setting his feet with intention against the bottom of the tub to keep from slipping; there’s not much space with both of them alongside each other, but Izaya’s hardly going to complain about the wet slip of Shizuo’s body pressing close against his own. He draws his hands free of Shizuo’s grip and reaches up instead, lifting his fingers to touch and wind into the wet fall of the other’s bleached-yellow hair; when he leans in closer his hips press against Shizuo’s, their bodies shifting to slot together as if in anticipation of what’s to come. Izaya lets himself go languid, lets his back arch to press in closer against Shizuo, to grind himself against the dip of the other’s hip; Shizuo’s breath spills from him in a huff, Shizuo’s head ducks down as if to press to Izaya’s shoulder as his hands settle themselves over the dip of the other’s hips.

“See,” Izaya says, speaking softly against the curve of Shizuo’s ear. “Isn’t this more fun than the shower?” That makes Shizuo snort a laugh against the wet of Izaya’s shoulder and draws his head turning to press a kiss against Izaya’s neck; Izaya tips his head into it, giving way to the idle urging of Shizuo’s touch even as he braces his arm around the other’s neck and reaches to close his free hand at Shizuo’s wrist. When he tugs it’s to urge the other’s touch back, around the line of his hip and to the soft swell of his ass; Shizuo’s fingers tighten, his grip pulling Izaya in closer as his breath rushes at the other’s shoulder, and Izaya lets his hand come back up to wind into Shizuo’s hair as the other’s fingers slide in and over him. It feels good just to be pressing close to the support of Shizuo before him, just to have Shizuo’s touch sliding over the wet-slick of his skin while they’re pinned together like this; and then Shizuo reaches out, and his fingers slide in and over Izaya’s entrance, and Izaya lets his lashes flutter shut and his throat open up on a moan of encouragement as fast as Shizuo touches him. His hips rock forward, his cock slides wet up alongside Shizuo’s, and at his shoulder Shizuo huffs a breath as he presses his touch in to drag harder over the give of Izaya’s body. His fingers slide, the texture of his skin catches on wet slick, and when he pushes up it’s to sink the whole length of a finger into the other in a single easy stroke. Izaya’s back arches, he tightens around the breadth of Shizuo’s touch, and Shizuo groans against his neck and slides his free hand up from Izaya’s hip to the dip of his back instead to brace him in place.

“Fuck,” he manages, so low Izaya can only hear the harsh edges of the word. “You really  _are_  still wet.”

“I told you,” Izaya says. “I’ve been ready for you to take me any time you wanted.” Shizuo touches against Izaya with a second finger; Izaya tips his head back and whimpers encouragement until Shizuo pushes up and into him with the two together, pressing as far into Izaya as he can reach before he slides back for another slow-wet thrust. Izaya can feel the heat of Shizuo’s touch working inside him, can feel the ache of arousal fretting low in his stomach; when he moves it’s to press in closer, to grind himself against Shizuo harder even than he was before.

“Come on,” he says, whining the words into a plea at Shizuo’s hair. “Please, senpai.” He drops his hand from Shizuo’s neck to the line between their bodies, where the whole hard length of Shizuo’s cock is running up against his hip and the bottom inches of his stomach; when his fingers ghost against the heat Izaya can feel Shizuo’s hips jerk, can hear the hiss of involuntary response against his skin as the resistance of the other’s cock twitches hard against his stomach. “Please fuck me, Shizuo.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says again; and then he slides his hand back to Izaya’s hip, bracing his grip there like he’s steadying himself as he draws his fingers free of the other’s body. Izaya wants to protest this loss, wants to give voice to the ache of unsatisfied want in him; but when Shizuo moves away it’s only to the end of the bathtub so he can sit against the lip at the back edge and brace his knees wide against the sides. Izaya’s attention slides down in spite of himself, following the flex of Shizuo’s thighs up to the dangling heat of his balls, the curls of dark hair around the base of his shaft, the thick length of his cock rising up and out from the flushed-damp heat of his body; and then Shizuo lifts a hand to gesture Izaya in, and Izaya’s focus jumps up to meet the dark of Shizuo’s gaze fixing him in place.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says; and Izaya moves at once, stepping in without waiting for instruction. Shizuo’s hands come up and out, Shizuo’s fingers catch at his hips to pivot him around, to fit them together with Izaya’s back pressing to Shizuo’s chest, and Izaya obeys without thinking, only hesitating long enough to reach out and brace himself against the other’s thigh as Shizuo draws him in and down. Shizuo’s hands are steady at his hips, Shizuo’s movement is unflinching as Izaya’s weight lowers towards his lap; and then the head of Shizuo’s cock slides in against Izaya’s entrance, and Izaya just has time to take a breath before Shizuo pulls, and Izaya relaxes, and their bodies slot together in a single long thrust of heat. Izaya’s fingers tense against Shizuo’s thigh, Izaya’s head drops forward as he huffs a breath of relief, and behind him Shizuo groans over an exhale as his fingers loosen into the slack of satisfaction at Izaya’s hips.

“God,” Shizuo breathes. His hand at Izaya’s hip comes up, his palm slides in and over the other’s stomach; Izaya lets himself lean backwards in unvoiced surrender to the pressure, lets his weight tilt back to rest against the rhythm of Shizuo’s heartbeat in his chest, against the pant of the other’s breathing against him. The shift in angle works Shizuo inside him, pushing and dragging a flare of friction out into Izaya’s veins; Izaya can feel his cock jerk with it, with the near-painful heat of Shizuo filling him again so soon after the rush and drag of their latest interlude. Shizuo turns his head in against Izaya’s, his lips skim just against the other’s hair. “You okay?”

Izaya clenches down against Shizuo inside him by way of answer; the pressure makes Shizuo’s thighs tremor but it makes his own breathing catch too, just at the spike of sensation inside him as the effort draws his attention to the details of the friction. He tips his head back against Shizuo’s shoulder and lifts his arm up to slide his fingers into the other’s hair, as much to hold himself steady as to keep Shizuo where he is, and Shizuo’s hand against his stomach presses in to brace him still as the other lets his hold go to grip the edge of the bathtub instead.

“Hold on,” Shizuo says, a warning as much as a statement; and then he slides them forward and off the edge of the tub to slip down and under the surface of the water. Izaya’s legs flex in spite of himself, his body tensing as if to catch himself as they move; but Shizuo’s hand against him is enough to hold him steady, and Shizuo’s grip at the edge of the tub is unflinching as he lowers them down. The water rises, sweeping up towards the edge of the tub and threatening to overflow onto the tile floor; and then Shizuo is settling against the bottom of the tub, and Izaya is settling onto Shizuo’s lap, and there’s just the lift of the water, and the sound of their breathing, and the heat of Shizuo’s cock heavy and full inside the reflexive tremors of Izaya clenching down around him.

Neither of them move for a minute. It’s enough for Izaya just to lie in the support of the water, to have the steam rising from the surface curling his hair and flushing his cheeks as he holds himself steady against Shizuo’s chest; and then there’s the heat within him, the solid resistance of Shizuo straining against the tension of his body. It’s almost too much, far closer to it than during the reckless haste of them fitting together at the front door of the apartment; then Izaya was so desperate he had been coming almost as soon as Shizuo thrust up and into him, had spent the majority of the interaction clutching at Shizuo’s neck and panting back from the edge of raw need while Shizuo chased down his own satisfaction within him. There’s less lubrication, now, a little less of the stretched-open heat that Shizuo’s fingers worked into Izaya in the entryway; with the extra friction Izaya can feel the strain of Shizuo in him with every breath he takes, as if his body is trembling with the effort to make room for the immediacy of the other’s presence. It’s almost a burn, almost painful; it’s so much that Izaya thinks he might be as close to coming now as he was when they stumbled into the apartment, even if it is his second orgasm within the hour. His cock is swollen hard and dark, the length of it arching up from his hips to threaten the surface of the water; if he rocks up he can just bare his cockhead to the open air. He does try it, for the pull inside him as much as to watch the shift of his body; and behind him Shizuo groans and lifts his hand from the edge of the tub to reach for Izaya’s length instead. Izaya jerks with the first contact, his body flexing on involuntary heat to thrust up against Shizuo’s hand even though he can get no traction with the pressure within him holding him in place; but he doesn’t have to, anyway, because Shizuo is sliding in and down to follow the length of him under the water before he closes his grip into a fist around Izaya’s shaft.

“Izaya,” Shizuo says, his voice dipping the familiar syllables into strange depth, into shadows enough to unfold an impossible horizon of potential, enough to flare all Izaya’s imagination to life with possibilities; and then his hand draws up, and Izaya’s head goes back, and imagination melts away to the overwhelming force of reality, the immediacy of Shizuo’s hands on him, and Shizuo’s chest pressing close against his back, and Shizuo’s cock catching every tremor of tension that runs through him. Izaya’s knee slides open, his leg shifting in a formless, instinctive bid for traction; and Shizuo’s thigh catches it, tightening to brace Izaya in place within the slick walls of the bathtub around them. Izaya’s fingers loosen, tighten, flexing themselves into a closer hold against the wet locks of Shizuo’s hair, and Shizuo answers him at once, drawing up over him with a steady rhythm that is almost more than Izaya can stand, that would be too much without that arm looping around his waist to brace him still and his own fist in that damp gold under his fingers. He’s quivering around Shizuo’s length, he can’t restrain the involuntary tremors quaking through him with every drag of Shizuo’s fingers over him; but Shizuo’s just breathing harder, like the feel of Izaya tightening around him is enough to make up for the stillness of his own hips. “Does it feel good?”

“Ah,” Izaya gasps. “You  _know_  it does, senpai.”

Shizuo’s laugh runs down Izaya’s spine like electricity, like fire, like all that not-quite painful friction burning inside him. “I do,” he says, with the absolute certainty that always makes him sound so dominant, that always makes Izaya feel like his bones are melting to the heat of that confident tone. “I can feel you” with a rock of his hips that splashes the water against the edges of the tub, that blows Izaya’s eyes wide with the surge of heat within him as Shizuo’s cock slides and settles into a new alignment. “You’re falling apart, aren’t you?”

“I told you,” Izaya says without turning his head away from the unfocused gaze he has pinned to the ceiling. “You’re irresistible when you give in to your baser instincts.”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums. “Like this?” His hips rock up, their bodies slide together; Izaya’s thighs twitch, his cock jerks in Shizuo’s hold. “You feel so  _good_ , Izaya.”

Izaya licks his lips, struggling for coherency as he reaches out to touch his fingers against the wet edge of the tub. “You’re going to spill all the water.”

“I don’t care,” Shizuo says; and then his fingers tighten, his hand strokes, and Izaya doesn’t care either, even to tease the other. Shizuo is finding a rhythm underneath him, between the tilt of his hips and the stroke of his hand; and the water is splashing up over the sides of the tub to spill onto the floor but Izaya cares far more about the heat rising in him, about the tension fluttering low in his stomach and clenching against his breathing. His legs are shaking, his arms are no better; he has to press out hard against Shizuo’s legs bracketing his own to still them, has to clench his fingers tight at Shizuo’s hair to steady his arm. His other hand is still at the lip of the bath; his fingers slide at the wet, his grip struggling with every upward thrust Shizuo takes into him and every dragging pull of Shizuo’s fingers working up over him.

“Fuck,” Shizuo groans. “You feel--” as his hips pulse up as if to speak for him, as if the heat of his cock moving into the other is enough coherency to convey his point. “Izaya.”

“Shizuo,” Izaya gasps. His heart is racing, his whole body feels like he’s straining for something just out of reach, just over a horizon; when his hand slips at the edge of the tub he gives it up entirely, reaching instead to clutch at Shizuo’s bracing hand against his abdomen, just under the outline of his ribs. His fingers tighten against the other’s wrist, his grip bearing down with the full strength he has to offer. “Don’t stop, Shizuo, please, I--”

“I know,” Shizuo grates out. “I’m not going to stop.”

Izaya can hear himself panting, can hear the rasp of his breathing over the steam-heat of the air. Shizuo is still moving, hips and hand alike urging the heat in Izaya higher, urging the tension in him to the breaking point; but Izaya is barely even feeling the specifics anymore, is losing his grasp on the details. There’s heat inside him, around him, bracing arms and rhythmic movement and the sound of breathing hard and hot against his ear; and he’s turning in towards it, his head tipping like it’s being drawn by the sound of Shizuo’s inhales next to him. His hand at Shizuo’s wrist loosens, his fingers slide down to fit between the other’s; and next to him Shizuo’s head turns, his attention drawing away from watching their bodies working together and down to meet and hold Izaya’s gaze instead.

“Oh,” Izaya says. “Shizuo, I’m going to--” and everything tips over the edge, all the tension in his body giving way to radiant, impossible inevitability. Izaya takes a breath, feels it go slack with relief in the whole of his body; and he’s coming, from the curl of his toes to the flutter of his eyelashes, every wave of pleasure rushing through the relaxation of his body like a wave of electricity. His back arches, his lips part, his fingers clutch; and somewhere in the distance Shizuo’s breathing is dragging into a groan, is coming apart against the seams into something nearly pained, into something entirely pleasure. Izaya can feel Shizuo tense against his shuddering body, like a wall forming itself from the give of the other’s muscles; and then Shizuo moans something almost the shape of Izaya’s name as his cock spills a long rush of heat into the other. Izaya lets his eyes shut, lets his body go slack; and for a brief eternity, the only movements between them are the irregular tremors of aftershocks shared out between them as if one and the same.

Izaya collects himself, after a minute. Shizuo has let his hold on the other’s cock go as Izaya softens out of arousal; his fingers are back against the other’s hip, his palm fitting in just under Izaya’s waist as if it was meant to rest there. Their fingers have intertwined, at some point; Shizuo’s more holding Izaya’s hand atop his now than he is bracing against the other’s stomach to keep them together. Izaya loosens his hold in Shizuo’s hair with some effort, thinking through the process of untangling his fingers and lingering over the slow slide to free his hand; Shizuo leans in to follow him, humming satisfaction in the back of his throat as Izaya draws his touch free. It makes Izaya smile without having to think about the expression at all; and then he reaches for the edge of the tub to brace himself, and Shizuo’s hold at his hip tightens, and when he moves to slide off Shizuo’s cock it’s as part of a single, shared motion. Izaya huffs at the pull inside him, at the drag of friction over much-used nerve endings; Shizuo groans, a little bit relief and a little bit loss as they come apart. Izaya draws his hand free of Shizuo’s hold and rocks forward onto his knees to look around and take stock of their situation. The bathroom floor is slick with water still, as the overflow from the bath winds its way towards the drain for the shower; in exchange the bathtub is less than half-full, even with both of them in it. With the water barely halfway up his thighs Izaya can feel his skin prickling into goosebumps at the chill of the damp evaporating off his skin.

“You almost drained the tub,” he says as he looks out at the bathroom floor. “I think there’s more out there than in here.”

Shizuo snorts. “I didn’t hear you complaining,” he says, and tips his knee in to bump Izaya’s shoulder. “Turn the water back on and we’ll refill it.”

Izaya sighs dramatically. “I should have known,” he says, and reaches out to turn the tap back on to fill the bath with hot water. “You really are dedicated to wasting water, senpai.”

“Be quiet and come back here,” Shizuo says, without anything but affection audible on the words. Izaya obeys at once, turning back around in the bath so he can tip in and fit himself against Shizuo’s chest once more; Shizuo lifts his arm to drape heavy around Izaya’s shoulders and hold the other steady as quickly as Izaya leans in against him. Izaya tips his head up and lifts his hand to reach and ruffle Shizuo’s half-dried hair back from his forehead; Shizuo ducks his head to the touch, smiling in the way that softens the corners of his eyes and eases his expression into such gentleness Izaya thinks no one in the city would recognize the feared urban legend in the expression.

“I love you,” Shizuo says. “No matter what you’re scheming.”

“Mm,” Izaya says. “I know you do.” Shizuo’s forehead creases, his gaze swings back to Izaya’s face, and Izaya breaks into a grin. “I love you too.” He turns his head to lie against Shizuo’s shoulder as he feathers his fingers back and through the other’s hair. “You wanted to know what I was plotting, right?”

“Sure,” Shizuo says. “It’s better that than being surprised.”

“Well,” Izaya says, and slides his fingers back and over Shizuo’s ear to trail through the curl of his hair. “Right now I’m in the middle of a top-secret and very cunning plan that I’ve been working on for quite a while. I think I may be close to achieving success at last.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, sounding amused. “What’s the goal?”

Izaya turns his head up to look at Shizuo. “Getting my boyfriend to kiss me,” he says, and trails his fingers down against the line of Shizuo’s neck. “How do you think it’s going?”

Izaya watches Shizuo’s laughter break across the whole of his face, as warm and brilliant as daybreak spilling gold out over the city. “I dunno,” he says. “I’m no good at this manipulation stuff.” Shizuo lifts his hand from where it’s draping over the side of the tub so he can catch his fingers against Izaya’s chin instead, and Izaya lifts his head at once to the force, letting himself be drawn up and off Shizuo’s shoulder by the other’s touch. “How about you tell me?”

Izaya opens his mouth to answer; but it’s some time before he next has the opportunity to speak, and by then they’ve both entirely forgotten the question.


End file.
